


Honor and Will

by Isk4649



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Fluff, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, Redemption, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Temporary Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isk4649/pseuds/Isk4649
Summary: "Ara vhen’an." The golden irises seemed to glow even brighter. Cullen swallowed hard as if to put a new emphasis. "It’s w–what I wanted to say… That I… love you."With Thedas in crisis, the Inquisition finds its reluctant hero in Tharin Trevelyan, a former templar turned the Herald of Andraste. But Cullen Rutherford finds much more than that in Tharin, and the two find themselves inexplicably drawn to each other. A frightened Cullen chooses duties and obligations, resorting to something drastic. His ill-advised action will hurt both men, perhaps irreparably.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 104
Kudos: 52
Collections: OTP collection





	1. Prologue - A Prisoner of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> I owe much to MoonCrisis (https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonCrisis), the best beta reader anyone could ask for. I have grown tremendously as an author from their comments and critiques, and this fic would have been even more amateurish without their steadfast support. Thank you so much!
> 
> Obviously, I do not own the rights to any characters or materials directly derived from the Dragon Age franchise, which all belong to BioWare. I do not, and will never, profit from the publication and the distribution of this fan fiction.
> 
> This is a fan fiction focused on the gay romance between a male Inquisitor and Cullen Rutherford. Proceed at your own risk.
> 
> I will post updates every Sunday (U.S. Eastern Standard Time).
> 
> Finally, your thoughts and feedback are always welcome! Thank you for reading!

**PART I: SPRING**

They met under the worst circumstances. The Temple of Sacred Ashes, obliterated. The Divine’s Conclave, vaporized. If not for his duty as the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, Cullen would have been at the epicenter too.

But there was no time to philosophize that particular brush with death. As the Inquisition agents struggled to gather what force they could, fortify Haven, and counteract Fade rifts that have sprung up everywhere, the Commander unfortunately found himself backed into a corner. Four despair demons surrounded the man, and he fought to survive.

He absolutely detested despair demons. They flitted about wildly, allowing him no opportunity to strike as they bombarded him constantly with freezing emissions. Fresh snow dotted their dark hoods and sickly green exoskeletons. Cullen’s ragged breath diffused quickly in the frigid air, as if to prove that they were conveyed by an evanescent organism, an infinitely mortal being.

The Commander had a fleeting thought that he shouldn’t have stopped taking lyrium. Maybe he could beat all four of them if he had some lyrium right now.

He was losing. He could feel it.

Then in his peripheral vision he saw another warrior jump into the battle. He could immediately tell the man was a templar.

The new warrior, whoever he might be, bellowed a battle cry that seemed to raise Cullen’s faith in perseverance and victory. Their moves aligned perfectly, down to the arduous breaths, and the relief washed over the Commander. Between the two of them, four demons were manageable.

Feeling reinvigorated by the reinforcement, Cullen gripped his sword and heater shield tighter. The despair demons diverted their attention to the new templar, preparing to make a dash toward the fresh target. Before all four of them did, the Commander bashed the one closest to him with his shield and mercilessly hacked at its appendages. The demon shrieked as it melted away into the oblivion.

Letting the momentum of the kill carry his body forward in a smooth motion, he bashed another demon and punctured its gaping maw. The other warrior was whirling about, easily dispatching the third demon with his nondescript broadsword. And then they were down to one.

But Cullen should not have relaxed. Not yet anyway. The last monstrosity turned toward him and stretched a bony arm, which he managed to evade only barely. The Commander took a tumble and was about to be pierced by that grotesque arm when the other templar cleaved the demon’s torso.

As the demon combusted into a pile of gray ash, the young templar stopped and offered a shimmering hand. It was him, the one the Inquisition soldiers found at the center of the explosion. The one who was supposed to be held in a jail somewhere. Cullen clasped the forearm firmly and it lifted him off the icy ground with some difficulty.

“Are you all right?” A weary smile. Cullen could not help but stare at the prisoner’s face.

At that moment Cassandra shouted harshly, “Close the rift, now!”

“Pardon me,” intoned the prisoner as he promptly jogged over to the rift, away from Cullen’s side. The iridescent glow coming from the Fade alighted the man’s silhouette and the Commander thought it oddly beautiful.

With a flick of the prisoner’s left wrist and a small burst of arcane energy the rift was no more. After requisite introductions and a few polite words, Cullen watched intently as the young prisoner, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric headed down to the explosion site.

Many months had passed, but the Commander often thought of the day the world shattered. And whenever he did, those tired yet resolute blue eyes on the young prisoner, who owed him and the Inquisition nothing, lingered in his mind.


	2. Into the Woods

It was just another cold evening in Ferelden.

Cullen shifted awkwardly on his seat to divert the attention. The Herald was staring, and it was making him uncomfortable.

It was futile, of course. Unless he knew how to cast an invisibility spell, it was fairly unlikely that he could will his body to vanish into thin air. He felt his face flush and vainly hoped the others would see it as an unintended side effect of having stoked the campfire too hot. It was unbelievable how intense the Herald’s eyes were, considering their owner was a fresh-faced warrior nine years younger than him.

Fortunately for Cullen, the other companions were oblivious to his predicament. Varric guffawed at something Scout Harding said, to which Cassandra simply snorted in muted amusement. As far as they were concerned, Cullen and the Herald could have been sitting in an entirely separate plane of existence. Cullen judged himself feeble for averting from the gaze and decided to confront it. He sharply turned to meet the other man’s eyes.

“Your worship.”

The Herald beamed. “It’s _Tharin_.”

Cullen was not about to start calling the Herald of Andraste, the scion of House Trevelyan and the only chance they had to close the Breach, by his nickname.

“ _Your worship_. What can I do you for?”

By the time Cullen realized the possible double entendre in his words, it was too late. A visible blush replaced the easy smile on the young man’s face, and he stammered an answer.

“I… No, Cullen. I was just… spacing out. Forgive me if I was gawking at you.” Then he fixed his eyes on the ground, suddenly finding the fallen leaves by his feet the most fascinating thing he ever encountered. After seemingly running out of any hope of finding something interesting among the leaves, he proceeded to pick up a stick and pointlessly jab the fire with it.

It was Cullen’s turn to observe. The Herald was a remarkably handsome man. Barely out of his growing years, he had youthful looks that made Cullen feel old and decrepit. Despite his aristocratic lineage, his jet-black hair was cropped short, presumably so that it would stay out of the way during battles.

His blue eyes were like two alpine lakes adjoining the rugged mountain range that were his eyebrows. The deep cobalt color of those waters gave off a specter of icy death, but Cullen knew better. Compassion and optimism were the ruling champions behind those eyes. In between them projected a perfect patrician nose, that led down to a mouth that knew how to smile and comfort even the most distraught.

A strong jawline framed these features beautifully. Lacking the proper shaving accoutrements out in the field, the young man’s face now sported thick bristles, but even those suited him. It made him look more imposing, not older.

Yet underneath the surfeit of boyish exuberance lay a solidly muscled body. He was a well-trained templar and it showed during fights. Cullen was no longer surprised to see their moves perfectly synchronized – Varric called it a _templar dance recital_ , which elicited a wheezing cachinnation from the Herald and a scowl from the Commander.

Cullen felt camaraderie in the young man who could fight so well but remained humble to a fault. Every time the former Knight-Captain complimented his moves, the Herald’s cheeks turned beet red and a faint protest surely followed. Secretly, he enjoyed watching the young man squirm, especially because such an occasion was relatively rare.

But it became increasingly clear to Cullen that he felt more than just camaraderie toward the Herald, and it worried him, not least of all because they were both men.

He was cognizant of the feelings. They reminded him of the childhood summers by the lake, heady with fragrance of wildflowers and joyful screams of young’uns jumping into the water. He watched one particular village girl emerge from the water with wet golden hair and unbridled happiness beaming from her face and prayed desperately to be bestowed with enough courage to talk to her.

These feelings reminded him of when he was assigned to the tutelage of a young templar, whose olive skin glistened with sweat and muscles thrummed with enormous power. Adolescent Cullen did not find it as difficult to talk to his mentor but lacked the courage to act on those feelings.

The feelings returned to haunt him when that mage at Kinloch Hold, a woman who could melt the most obstinate heart with just a wink, whispered sweet nothings in his ears for days and nights. But his reservation about these feelings ultimately did not matter, because she distanced herself when he was given the odious task of killing mages who failed their Harrowing.

And then the demons happened to him. Then the dark days of Kirkwall when he simply stood by as templars were reduced to prison guards and butchers. The feelings, all too rightly, never came back.

Until the world shattered, and he met the Herald of Andraste.

These feelings always bewildered Cullen. He had read books and heard songs that unashamedly celebrated these feelings. There were even one or two odd ones in which two men, not a man and a woman, harbored the feelings toward each other. But these emotions were so distracting. How could amorphous entities that interfered with competent execution of his duties ever be construed as something good?

It was not that he hated these feelings. He simply didn’t understand the reason for their existence. They were intense but ephemeral like spring blossoms. That last bit of knowledge at least comforted Cullen as he regarded the young man’s countenance.

More importantly, there were countless Fade rifts vomiting out hordes of demons and an enormous magical hole in the sky to boot. Attending to private affairs seemed like an unaffordable luxury for the Commander of the Inquisition’s army. Not that he ever required a valid excuse to dismiss private emotions for himself.

He decided not too long ago to stuff these feelings in a tiny box, put it in the attic of his mind, and ignore it until later. By the time this uncertain _later_ came around, the feelings would be long dead, just like what happened before. He would then go on and continue to perform his duties as he had always done, and that would be that.

Satisfied after going over the determined course of action in his head, Cullen joined the fireside chat. He could even laugh freely in spite of the Herald’s piercing gaze once again drilling a hole on his face. _I will deal with it later_ , he thought.

***

It was obvious the Commander was not interested. He said, “I would value your friendship. I’m afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you will understand.” His arms were tightly crossed. No entry possible, they seemed to say.

Yet Tharin could not stop staring at him. He knew he was making the other man uncomfortable and felt like a predator stalking prey, but he couldn’t take his eyes off. He had not met such a handsome and fascinating man since his templar days.

Cullen was an amazing array of contradictions. His mouth, highlighted by a scar on the upper right side, was determined, tenacious, stubborn even. But his amber eyes sparkled with warmth and empathy far beyond his years. On rare occasions when he let his guard down, he would curl his lips to reveal his mischievous side, normally reserved for private company that most definitely did not include casual acquaintances from the Inquisition. Still, he didn’t seem to have a close friend other than Cassandra, and even that relationship was somehow stilted.

The Commander seemed unapproachable, someone who enjoyed his own company. Yet he was without fail the first to enter the war room and the last to leave. He always listened to Tharin’s concerns and made sure to answer all his questions, even the most asinine ones.

He could lead a charge and shout a battle cry that would topple down mountains, but whenever Tharin dropped by to chat his voice took on a soft, melodic tone. A sonorous chorus of consonants and vowels. He always ended their conversations with “Should you require anything, I’ll be here” and “Another time then,” never a goodbye imbued with the conclusiveness of a completed transaction.

It was not just his rugged good looks that gravitated Tharin to the Commander. True, it was hard not to immediately notice his attractiveness, but the young man did not think much of it at the beginning.

The more and more time Tharin spent with him, the more he wanted to know Cullen Rutherford, the man who would guide the Inquisition’s forces to victory yet sought no glory for himself. What was he like away from the responsibilities of the command? What kind of family did he have? What made him laugh? What was his story so far? What kind of future did he want for himself? _These_ were the kind of inquiries Tharin wanted to raise but did not dare.

Instead, the young man kept prolonging their strategy meetings and random chats, talking about this and that without hitting anything substantial. Every time Tharin left Cullen after a conversation, he kicked himself for not having the courage to ask the questions he desperately wanted to ask. Even if courtship proved to be just a pipe dream, he at least should be able to ask the Commander more personal questions. But he just couldn’t.

The party killed the campfire before settling down for the night. They had been battling continuously for days, fending off bandits, hostile apostates, rogue templars, and demons, in addition to a variety of aggressive fauna. While Tharin and his party were fighting, Cullen and his band of elite soldiers went ahead and set up numerous campsites around the Hinterlands. Now the Inquisition would be able to monitor and halt the pointless violence between mages and templars in the region. The expedition had been fruitful, if grueling.

As soon as Tharin hit his bedroll, he began to fade. Even with Varric’s snoring and Cassandra’s thunderous outbursts – the woman even fought in her sleep – Tharin felt his consciousness gradually shutting down for the night. Suddenly, the tent flap opened, and he could hear Cullen coming in after his watch. There was no way it could have been two hours already, could it?

Cullen shook Cassandra awake. The Seeker’s groan was heavy with sleep, but in less than ten seconds she was fully alert. They whispered.

“Evening, Seeker. I’m sorry to wake you.”

“It’s my turn, I know. Anything seem off?”

“No, but I could see the glow of a rift not far from here. Hopefully, the demons are feeling tired too.”

“Should we wake the Herald up? It’s better that we deal with this now.”

There was a pause. Then Cullen spoke softly.

“Leave him be. He’s had a long day. Besides, it’s unfair to treat him like a weapon you can brandish at the Fade.”

“I didn’t mean to… That is… Ugh, I’m going.”

Tharin could hear Cassandra yanking open the tent and stomp off, obviously not caring whether she might wake the others. In her exasperation she left without her sword and armor. She would have to come back to retrieve them.

Cullen chortled quietly, tiptoed to his corner of the tent, and started to take off his chest plate. Tharin didn’t even realize he was holding his breath. When he exhaled, the sound of metallic clinking instantly ceased.

He sensed Cullen gingerly kneeling down next to him. He then felt the Commander’s hand on his back, the palm flat against the surface. Its gentle warmth comforted him. A moment later, the hand was gone, and Cullen was wrestling with his armor once again.

Finally free of the cumbersome parts, Cullen lay down in the bedroll next to Tharin and sighed in relief. In no time, the Commander was snoring away.

Tharin, on the other hand, was now wide awake. The physical distance between them had shrunk to nothing, and everything about the Commander overwhelmed his senses.

The heat radiating from the other man’s side put goosebumps on Tharin’s back and he was sure everyone in the camp could hear his heartbeat. If he had the courage to turn, he could touch the dark blond stubble on the other man’s face. Would it be as coarse as he imagined it to be? Would it tickle? How would it feel pressed on his neck, aided by the Commander’s heavy breaths grazing his sensitive skin?

The most powerful of all, however, was Cullen’s scent. A mixture of healthy sweat with subtle notes of tree saps, sweet flowers, and wild grass all coming together in aromatic bliss. None overshadowed the other and it could not have been more perfect. It was a siren song that beckoned to Tharin and he was devastated he could not answer its call.

The Herald of Andraste, the holy messenger of the Maker’s wife, felt an earthly desire overtake him, the front of his trousers now clearly straining. But there was to be no relief, not tonight. Or any night in the future when Cullen was to slumber next to him. Because the Commander was not interested.

He sighed, half happy and half frustrated. He squeezed the throbbing hardness with his right hand, willing it to go away. After it did – finally! –, he started a mental list of all the ways he could punish Cullen for keeping him awake.

Tharin eventually drifted to sleep, but not before the approaching dawn had dyed the eastern sky mauve.

***

The next morning, the party slept in. After four days of near-constant skirmishes, the companions and soldiers deserved a morning off. The sun was already high up in the sky when Tharin woke up.

It looked like Scout Harding had been out of the campsite for hours, busy completing the reconnaissance of the Hinterlands. Tharin marveled at the woman’s diligence. If he were the head scout, the Inquisition would be clueless of anything that happened beyond the gates of Haven. _Good thing I’m the one with the glowing hand_ , Tharin thought glumly.

Varric and Cassandra were still soundly asleep, but Cullen’s bedroll was cold and empty. Tharin opened the tent to see where the Commander had gone.

The man was sitting by the creek, absorbed in a book. His location made a certain strategic sense. The Commander had the view of the entire camp. The waterfall was on one side and on the other, he could keep eyes out for potential intruders coming up the hill. The image of Cullen quietly surveying the land made Tharin’s lips curve upward. For the Commander, strategic thinking must be an occupational hazard that had become second nature by now.

“Good morning, Cullen.”

Wide-eyed and flustered, the man abruptly closed the book and hid it behind his back. He croaked, “Oh, hello. You’re up early.”

“It’s not even remotely close to ‘early.’ What are you reading?”

Cullen hesitated and grinned sheepishly. When Tharin gave him a questioning look, he surrendered the book. The title surprised the young man.

“ _The Dialectics on the Divinity of Elven Gods and Dalish Cultural Construction_ by Professor Emeritus Charles Devereux of the University of Orlais? Maker, _that_ is a mouthful. Are you particularly interested in elven lore?”

“Not as a matter of fact, no. I just…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I thought… Since you are half-elven, I thought it might be good for me to understand elven culture.”

Tharin suddenly felt out of breath, just a bit. “Color me impressed, Commander. But I am a little embarrassed to tell you that I am as elven as a dwarf from Orzammar.”

The shy glow transformed into knitted brows filled with nerves. “Andraste preserve me, I should not have assumed. I apologize, my lord. It was not my intention to waste the Inquisition’s time this way.”

“Oh please. Reading can never be a waste. I enjoy books as well, though my literary diet used to consist of a hodgepodge of novels and travel logs. Nothing too intellectually stimulating as yours, I bet. Regrettably, it now consists entirely of requisition requests and some odd letters from noble houses asking for my hand in marriage.”

Looking much more at ease after that exposition, Cullen chuckled cheerfully. Tharin loved making the man laugh. And what’s more, this was something personal they could talk about without the young man having to completely freeze up in terror. “So, I see you have an academic hidden away in a warrior who likes slashing and stabbing things. What does he think of the book?”

The corners of the Commander’s scarred lips upturned slyly. “I can tell you that this is the most convoluted book I’ve ever read. I usually go for straightforward memoirs and travel diaries as well.” He cast his gaze downward. “Though, to be honest, philosophical essays are my favorite. The meaning of life and all that.”

Tharin whistled in awe. “We should make you the head librarian of the Inquisition. We definitely need one of those.”

Cullen turned away but did not look entirely displeased. “You are teasing me.”

“No, really. I mean, there isn’t a library at Haven if you don’t count the cobweb-covered bookcases scattered all around the town, but still…”

Wanting to get closer, Tharin boldly asked, “Mind if I sat next to you?”

Cullen shook his head and gestured to a dry spot next to him. The young man sat down and watched as the sunlight danced on the ripples of water. Even amid a bloody conflict, the nature was doing what it had been doing for innumerable millennia. Streams still flowed and the sun still shined; trees rose and flowers bloomed; lives grew and withered away. The permanence of the seasons was comforting and sobering all at once.

Yet Tharin’s inquisitive mind conjured a question even during that meditative stillness. “Forgive me, but may I ask how you started reading for pleasure? When I was in Hasmal, the Chantry frowned on templars getting too clever. I can’t imagine it was that different in the Circles you’ve been to.”

The atmosphere around Cullen suddenly turned gloomy. “I suppose it’s a holdover from my days in Kirkwall, when… when I didn’t have anyone to talk to.”

Tharin knew he touched a nerve. He didn’t want to ruin the moment by pushing in, but he also wanted to be caring, sympathetic. “That must have been hard. Do you want to talk about it, maybe?”

The man’s expression was opaque, obscuring any emotion he might have felt. “…Perhaps another day. It’s not something I enjoy discussing.”

The young man found it difficult to hide his disappointment at Cullen’s reticence, but he also felt selfish for even feeling that way. He never intended to upset the man, but it seemed he had done exactly that. Thus, there was no other possible answer than a simple “I understand,” which he promptly offered.

The two men sat side by side silently staring at the icy water meandering through pebbles and islets of blood lotuses, and Tharin chastised himself for tarnishing a perfectly lovely moment.

The tent rustled, and Cassandra and Varric emerged looking somehow even more haggard than the night before. They were already bickering about something, which indeed portended a long and tedious day for all. It was time for the Commander to cut in and stop their nonsense.

Cullen leapt to his feet but did not immediately leave Tharin’s side. His next words were so soft, the young man could hardly hear them. “Later, when you are free, I would very much like to talk to you… about the book.”

There was something hauntingly lonely about Cullen’s voice. Tharin’s heart ached, but he could not comprehend why. “Of course. I’d like that.”

A wan smile appeared on Cullen’s face, only to vanish immediately. The man replied quickly before walking away.

“I look forward to it.”


	3. A Severed Leash, Conveyed in Confidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! References to murders, implied rape, and PTSD.

It was a Tuesday that refused to be mundane.

The dusk had transformed the sky above Haven into an expensive Tevene wine that leisurely swirled around in a decanter, reflecting hundreds of different colors that dissolved together in harmony. The soldiers had long since finished their training and had retired to their tents or to the tavern. There would no doubt be many thickheaded recruits tomorrow.

Cullen regretted his decision to let them off so early, though he couldn’t help it. His mind was racing as his brain convulsed painfully.

The darkness encroached rapidly in his tent. A vial filled with translucent blue liquid sat on his desk. The Commander had been glaring at it for quite some time. Sitting on the edge of his seat, he leaned forward in intense concentration. As he did, its hums became deafening and his tormented mind screamed in their wake. He needed to take it, but he didn’t want to take it.

With no warning, the tent flapped open and in walked the Herald, beaming. “Good evening, Commander. I wanted to…” The man stopped in his tracks and stared at the vial. His voice shook. “Cullen, is that…?”

Cullen jumped forward to hide the vial.

“Get out!”

The Commander was surprised at the sharpness of his own voice. He did not mean to snarl at the Herald; that was the last thing he wanted. But his body was beyond his control and it came out as a rebuke. Tharin held his hands up and exited the tent wordlessly, but there were no footsteps to be heard afterward.

The disruption caused by Tharin’s unexpected appearance helped Cullen quiet his mind. He still had to nurse a splitting headache, but at least his brain stopped spinning feelings of imminent doom. The thirst was still there, but manageable. He put the vial back into the kit, closed it, and locked it in the bottom drawer.

When he came out to check if Tharin had left, he found the young man sitting on the ground next to the tent. He gazed up to look at Cullen and murmured a soft hello. There was a crease in his brow, filled with concern.

Cullen’s cheeks grew hot. He crossed his arms, as if to ready himself for a confrontation. It took him a few seconds to greet in an unnecessarily curt voice, “…Your worship.”

The concern instantly gave way to an expression of genuine contrition. “Forgive me. I know it’s late and I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I just wanted to ask how the recruit training was coming along and… to see how you were. We didn’t get a chance to talk after returning from the Hinterlands.”

Cullen absentmindedly reached for the back of his neck and rubbed. His gaze was now firmly planted on his feet. “No, please. I should be the one apologizing. It was unworthy of me to act that way.”

Tharin warily grinned. “No need.” He stood up, dusted his seat, and stretched. “I will come by tomorrow. And I promise, I will announce my arrival very loudly before entering next time.” He squeezed the Commander’s shoulder before walking away.

The Commander’s heart thumped heavily. He did want to talk to Tharin. He needed him to know everything. The man deserved to know everything. “Ah, wait. Please. We should talk…” Realizing he might be perceived as impertinent, he quickly added, “That is, only if you still want to.”

The young man spun around and nodded enthusiastically. His eagerness comforted Cullen.

***

It was ostensibly spring, but the icy claws of winter firmly held onto the Frostbacks. A snow flurry began to descend upon the hamlet and Haven, betraying its namesake, was not much of a sanctuary to the huddled masses. Yet Cullen was grateful as he watched his breath dissipate into the night. The bracing cold helped with the headache. He might actually sound eloquent while he conveyed his horrifying past. Fantastic.

The two men settled at the bottom of the steps that led to a row of military tents and the chantry. He saw two gossiping Chantry sisters at the top of stairs who seemed to never leave their spot. Varric stood farther away, warming his hands by a campfire.

Cullen would have preferred a more secluded spot. But with low-hanging clouds rolling in to obscure the rising moons, there was no other well-lit and reasonably private place to have a long and difficult conversation. He would have to speak quietly so the onlookers, including the dwarf who always carried parchment and a quill with him, would not be tempted to listen in.

Cullen began cautiously, “You may feel like a conscript, and maybe some of us do treat you like one, but I’ve come to think of you as the de facto leader of the Inquisition.” Tharin obviously wanted to protest that conclusion, but the Commander did not give him an opening. “As such, you deserve to know my past. I leave up to you the judgment of my capacity to command the Inquisition’s forces.”

Tharin’s reaction carried clear apprehension. “Cullen, I have no such right. You do not need to tell me anything you don’t want me to know.”

Cullen replied with a weary grin. “I appreciate your sympathy, my lord. But I do want you to know.” He then shifted his eyes to Tharin and waited. The young man nodded, looking determined yet still nervous about what was to come.

It was like exhaling jagged pieces of glass as he spoke. He started with the Circle Tower.

“I started my career as a templar at Kinloch Hold. As a young initiate, all I wanted to do was help people, to defend the weak and vanquish the evil. But Kinloch was… something else altogether.

“There was no trust between templars and mages there. The hatred between the two was palpable, and before long I was part of it all. I came to regard mages as troublemakers, who could not be entrusted with the safety of themselves let alone the lives of people with no magical abilities.

“I suppose… It helped me to think that way. To think of mages as a flock of sheep, to be herded and caged, because I was responsible for executing those who failed their Harrowing. I didn’t want to admit it, but if I started to think of them as people, my conscience wouldn’t have been able to take it.

“It was as if we were all on edge, waiting for one of our charges to turn into an abomination. I only found out later when I arrived in Kirkwall that the mistrust ran more deeply than I previously thought. The Order… No, _I_ helped create a world where mages and templars are eternally battling against each other, for no reason other than the fact that we couldn’t trust each other to respect the humanity in us all.”

The young man remained quiet, but the shock was apparent. Just like Cullen, the Herald used to be a templar in his previous life. Tharin had to have heard about the incident at the Ferelden Circle. Cullen had to face away when the young man’s brow creased in concern. The Commander decided that it would be easier to think of this as a soliloquy.

“I think the mistrust helped Uldred take over the Circle. If we had only treated mages as they should have been, if we actually listened to their concerns instead of forcing our rules on them, I don’t think quite so many would have joined him.

“Once Uldred seized control, he unleashed abominations and demons on the templars, and they forced me to…” Cullen had to stop. He could feel a hot mass rising from his throat. “I was forced to watch my friends and comrades being tortured and murdered.”

A warm hand reached across and landed on Cullen’s shoulder. His stomach began to burn as soon as he felt the hand, but he knew Tharin only wanted to comfort him.

After a moment of pause, Cullen let forth a hollow laugh. “I suppose I should consider myself lucky… In his absolute cruelty, Uldred let me live to fully experience the death around me. I do not know how he found out, but he knew of my responsibility at the Circle and probably thought it was an appropriate punishment.

“I was stuck in the prison he had conjured, and I soon gave up yelling for him to stop. But I never turned away. I was going to watch the demons twist my friends into unimaginable horrors before they gleefully finish them off. One by one. I made sure that someone was with them in their last moments, even if it was… just me, utterly helpless.

“When the demons ran out of bodies to mutilate, they… finally came for me.” Cullen’s hands balled up and he began to tremble ever so faintly, but whether it was in fury or in fear, even he was not sure.

“The demons… They… They did things… that…” Cullen struggled to continue. Tharin could not have reached him even if he wanted to. The Commander was being pulled into his worst nightmare.

“I… I saw my sisters being… ravaged and killed over and over. I saw blood mages plunge daggers into my body, draining me and using my blood to gain more power. I saw the darkspawn… ripping my parents into shreds as they screamed in agony. I couldn’t tell you how much time had passed, but I was soon numbed. I actually felt my mind breaking down, and I welcomed it.” Cullen finally closed his eyes.

Tharin began to plead, “Cullen, I beg you…” But the man was far from done.

“When fear and despair demons could no longer feed off me, they… They projected scenes in which… I was… used. Men, women, human, elves, dwarves, whatever else… It didn’t matter, and I could only sense them. I couldn’t actually recognize their faces, but… Every time they added another figure to… use me, I felt my fear increase exponentially. I suppose the demons got what they wanted.”

Cullen turned to look at Tharin to let him know the hardest part was said but was startled when he saw the young man staring down at the snow-covered steps with his arms tightly huddled around the chest. His eyes were wide.

“I… I must apologize, your worship. I didn’t tell you these things to upset you. I shouldn’t have gone into such detail.”

Before Cullen was finished with the apologies, Tharin shook his head fiercely. “No, Cullen. It’s just that… I don’t know if I am worthy of your confidence, but… If I can do anything to make things better for you. If I can do anything at all, I…”

The young man trailed off and clamped his eyes shut. After a long while, he gulped the cold night air and finished in a calmer voice, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Commander. Forgive me.”

Cullen hesitated momentarily before starting again, “The Warden saved me. When he and I reached Knight-Commander Greagoir, I insisted that we… invoke the Right of Annulment. I just wanted all of that to be over, to be rid of everything that was… magical. But the Warden prevailed, and he convinced the Knight-Commander that there were innocents who needed to be saved. I was so angry. I was sure that they had made a terrible mistake.

“Once I was well enough to perform my duties again, Greagoir sent me to Kirkwall. There, I found a place that was exactly like Kinloch before Uldred. There was no trust, no mutual respect, just fear and oppression. Knight-Commander… No… She doesn’t deserve that title. Meredith made sure of it. I couldn’t take it, but I couldn’t leave it either. I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t go back to my family so broken.

“I first started reading to escape myself, to go to places where I wasn’t a templar. Where I wasn’t… me. I could be a chevalier in Halamshiral whose life was filled only with adventures and romance. Or a peasant girl in Nevarra who found her true love in the arms of a young local lord.”

Despite the gravity of his memories, Cullen felt his mouth curl upward. He described a dream within a nightmare, a keepsake that helped him to keep living in those dark times. “It sounds juvenile. I felt juvenile for reading that soppy trash even then, but in those days nothing else could make me feel better. I went through them like we go through missives and dispatches.

“And then I moved on to philosophy. I had to know whether there was any purpose to my suffering. I… still believe that there is a higher being, the Maker if you will, who presides over all of us. But… I no longer believe with certainty.

“Great philosophers forced me to think about where my loyalty should lie, why the world’s the way it is, and taught me to accept uncertainty in life. It terrified me at first, but now I realize it made me a better man. It opened new opportunities, helped me think for myself. I wasn’t going to be the Chantry’s mindless follower anymore.

“Still, I was bitter. I didn’t hate mages like I did right after… Kinloch, but I kept on blustering. I actually told the Champion of Kirkwall that we cannot treat mages like people. I told her that her kind could not be trusted to handle their powers; that they needed to be locked up. I knew she considered me a friend, and I hurt her. Deliberately.

“I felt worthless and driving her away seemed so much easier than confronting my past. I didn’t seek out forgiveness because I knew I didn’t deserve it, but Hawke still gave it to me unconditionally. In the end, she gave me the courage to stand up to Meredith and her draconian measures.”

Cullen continued with a regretful sigh, “Frankly, it was too little too late. I let my subordinates bully and persecute Kirkwall mages, to render them tranquil, while I sulked and licked my wounds. And I will never be able to clear my conscience of all those lives that I had a hand in ruining.” He then furiously rubbed his eyes. It was exhausting to recount tales of how he betrayed and failed people over and over.

“I was glad to let Hawke and her companions escape the city. I was sad I couldn’t offer more for her unwavering friendship.” He reminisced, longing for the friend who helped him recover his humanity and free himself from the shackles of hatred.

“After a rebel mage blew up Kirkwall’s chantry and Hawke took down Meredith, I was done with the Order. I only stayed to help with recovery efforts, and when Cassandra asked me to join her in the Inquisition I did not waver. The Maker was showing me a new path and I had to take it. The Inquisition gave me a home and the power to… correct some of the wrongs I’d committed.”

When the Commander turned, he was met with a look of reverence. He had expected pity, maybe contempt, but not this. It made him feel all scratchy inside. It was the kind of look that should have been reserved for someone who was… well, better than him.

“Cullen… I had no idea. I can’t thank you enough for your confidence in me.”

An awkward grin floated on Cullen’s scarred lips. “I know it was long and difficult, and I appreciate your listening to everything. But… there’s more.”

The Commander observed another look of surprise laced with dread on Tharin and felt considerably guilty. “All this was a preamble to tell you that I’ve stopped taking lyrium for good. I did not want to be leashed by the templars or the Chantry anymore, and quitting lyrium was the first step. I have not had it since leaving Kirkwall.”

Tharin gasped. “Did I see you…?”

Cullen could sense his face lighting up from shame. “Yes, you did. I am, however, very grateful that you walked in on me. I didn’t want to take it.”

“Maker… Are you going to be okay?” It was an inane question. As a former templar himself, the young man was certainly no stranger to symptoms of lyrium withdrawal.

He simply nodded, “I am still here, aren’t I?”

It was only then Cullen again became conscious of the world beyond their little huddle and looked around to catch any eavesdroppers. Varric was staring at him and the Chantry sisters were blatantly gawking at the Herald, but he was sure they were out of earshot. Now came the Inquisition business.

“I realize now that I was doing you a disservice by keeping my condition secret. As you know, lyrium withdrawal can cause paranoia, madness, and… death. So far, I’ve only had to contend with infrequent cravings and headaches. But should more serious symptoms come to pass… I’ve asked Cassandra to watch me. If she judges me unfit, she will relieve me from duty and recommend another candidate.

“And now that you know, you should think about whether you want me to continue commanding the Inquisition’s army. I may not be able to give you my all without lyrium.

“It certainly feels like I’m withholding by not taking lyrium. My brain seems to operate better with it in me,” Cullen exhaled wearily.

“I swore to Cassandra that I would not give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry, and I swear to you now. Maker knows, it is the only way I can ever start to amend for my failures to mages of Ferelden and Kirkwall. But my personal issues should not interfere with the operation of the Inquisition. I will accept any decision you make regarding my position and responsibilities.”

A shadow of despair dyed Cullen’s mind pitch black, but he soldiered on. “If you think it necessary, I will gladly go back to taking lyrium. Or… knowing what I’ve done and how I’d acted in the past, you may decide that my presence is no longer welcome in the Inquisition.”

A series of deep inhales and exhales allowed the Commander to reassert control over his face and he hoped it would not betray the gnawing anxiety. The next words out of the young man’s mouth would determine his future. One way or another, things were going to change.

Thankfully, the suspense did not last. Tharin’s voice had the tiniest note of an irregular vibration underneath the bass. It hit Cullen that the man was worried about giving him the wrong answer.

“Cullen, you aren’t just your past. I can tell that you certainly aren’t willing to let it drag you down. And you are needed. The Inquisition is infinitely better with you in it, and you already give more than enough without lyrium. You give all you can _because_ you are free of lyrium. You are brave, honorable, and generous. I admire you for going through everything and still coming out a better man than any of us.”

Cullen felt the tension leave at once and his clutched hands began to quake. He huffed in relief and blinked slowly. It kept the tears at bay. This was far more than he thought he ever deserved.

“You’ve always been kind to me, even when everyone else saw me with suspicion. For that, you have my heartfelt gratitude. And you have been nothing but exceptional in carrying out your duties. You helped save many lives in Ferelden! You deserve no less than official commendations for your achievements.

“I have neither the authority nor the right, but as long as I am with the Inquisition you will have a home. If anyone questions your place here, that person will have to deal with me first. That is my judgment, and it is final,” Tharin concluded with finality of a judicial ruling.

Cullen’s heart swelled. He could not believe his good fortune, that the first person he confessed everything to, the person who he wanted most to prove himself to, would accept him so completely. Would Hawke have remained a friend if she knew all about the extent of his treachery at the Gallows and the anguish from his past? Wouldn’t she have steered clear, hoping not to catch whatever he had? Wouldn’t Cassandra? Wouldn’t anyone?

Yet here he was, with Tharin, who not only thought him brave, honorable, and generous, but most importantly thought him worthy enough to contribute to the great cause without the crutch offered by the sweet poison.

The time was nowhere near the uncertain _later_ he had envisioned, but the feelings he had carefully tucked away were bursting out and he could barely contain them. They were not just alive but thriving and no longer miniscule enough for him to ignore.

But he did not want to be pitied. The Inquisition had to be the priority. With a barely subdued voice, he ventured, “My lord… You must put the needs of the Inquisition first. If this is because you feel bad for me…”

The look of admiration was back, but this time he did not feel the cloying heat of self-doubt. It assured him of the young man’s acceptance, and he was glad.

“No, Cullen. If anything, I think we need more people like you in the Inquisition. You are resolute; otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to quit lyrium all by yourself. You constantly reexamine your ability to tell the right apart from the wrong, and you take responsibility for your actions.

“These are all good qualities in a leader, and the Inquisition’s forces could not be in better hands. And I am beyond honored that you would consider me… your confidant. I can only pray that I am worthy of your trust.”

Cullen could not look directly at the other man’s eyes. In his steadily blurring peripheral vision, he could see Tharin beam with kindness.

“I… sincerely thank you.”

He wanted to bury his face in the wide expanse of Tharin’s chest, to put a physical lid on all the emotions that were seeping out. Yet he had to make do with sitting side by side in the warm glow of affirmation.

The freezing air howled as it rushed past them. The night was well underway, and Haven’s residents were heading home one by one. The two men could hear bawdy singing spilling out every time the tavern door swung open. Soon they would be crowded by soldiers making their ways back to their bedrolls.

The Commander tried to sniff back the tears. After a couple tries, he was grateful he could finally piece back his stoic exterior. Blubbering would be hardly conducive to optimal execution of his duties. “Well… It’s getting late. I will see you in the morning. We mustn’t slack off in your training.”

The reverent look was gone, to be replaced by friendly warmth. “Bold of you to say so, Cullen. If I recall correctly, I was probably the one training you.” A hand reached across once again, but the touch now elicited only happiness.

Cullen found himself able to reply with his eyes crinkled. “I doubt that very much.”

***

Tharin woke up with a bloated face, a physical remnant from an emotionally charged evening that led to a night of stifling his cries with a pillow. Granted, he was prone to tears, but the enormity of Cullen’s confession was simply overwhelming.

The Commander looked fragile as he recounted his past, and the young man did all he could do to stop himself from lunging forward to embrace the man. In fact, Tharin was intensely feeling so many different emotions that reminded him of… that particular state of being that he was definitely not ready to find himself in again.

Even in the afternoon the temperature stayed below freezing. The young man secretly prayed for a brief spell of a blizzard so that any outdoor activities, including walking from his cabin to the chantry building for the semiweekly war council, would be deemed too hazardous.

But Haven’s weather, which was reliably awful, betrayed him in his hour of need. The snow flurry from last night had all but ceased by the time he trained with Cullen. The sun was out and brighter than ever. Some of the accumulated precipitation was actually melting. It was hopeless.

Tharin traipsed into the war room with puffy eyes and a red nose, which drew a sympathetic look from Cullen, making him feel even more embarrassed, and curious glances from the other advisors. He tersely grunted approvals and disapprovals at choices presented by Josephine and Leliana, and he adjourned the meeting as quickly as possible.

Cullen looked like he wanted to talk, but Lady Montilyet, known to be relentlessly diligent, intercepted and whisked him away to be tormented with complaints from Fereldan nobles irked by the Inquisition soldiers in their backyards. And then Cassandra happened to Tharin.

_Happened_ really was an apt term to describe how Cassandra approached Tharin. The Seeker pounced the Herald as soon as the others vacated the room. She grabbed his forearm and dragged him to the far corner of the room. With a severe face, she brusquely pushed him onto an old chair. Tharin half expected the rickety thing to collapse from the combined force of his weight and the woman’s push.

“Talk,” she intoned firmly.

“Seeker, I am not feeling well. Could we do this later?” Tharin felt a déjà vu as he tried to deflect Cassandra’s probing.

“There is obviously something troubling you. You must tell me.” A wooden mallet on the head would be a gentler treatment compared to an interrogation by her.

“Cassandra…”

“Talk,” she repeated, more firmly than before. Tharin wondered how that was even possible.

“I am not sure whether I am allowed to tell you.” Which was true. But it was also a convenient excuse to get Cassandra off his back. It didn’t work.

“Do not be coy. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“All right, fine.” Still, Tharin dilly-dallied until the woman began to rotate her hand and sigh impatiently. He wet his lips and began, “Cullen and I talked last night… about his past.”

It stopped Cassandra dead in her tracks. She now looked stunned. It was refreshing to see that the woman, as formidable as she was, could still make such a face. She questioned, “How much did he tell you?”

“Everything.”

“Kinloch?”

“Yes.”

“Kirkwall? And Meredith?”

“Yes.”

“…Lyrium?”

“Yes.”

Cassandra looked amazed, but a moment later a quizzical expression took over.

“What about you? Are you still taking lyrium? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your name on the requisition requests.”

“No, Seeker. I do not.” _And let us leave it at that, all right?_ Tharin crossed his arms and stared at Cassandra, unblinking, hoping to communicate his intent clearly. Thankfully, the woman did not press further. Instead, she offered her hand to lift him from the chair. Tharin warily accepted. If he didn’t know better, he would have guessed that the Seeker was sorry for her earlier actions.

An awkward silence reigned in the war room until the woman began to speak in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “It is good to know Cullen’s found someone to confide in. He needs a person who understands him, who can accept him and his past.”

“Are you implying you don’t accept his past? Because I find that hard to believe. You may be many things, Seeker, but heartless isn’t one of them. I should know, I’ve encountered your bleeding heart at least once before. Otherwise, my head would be mounted on a pike by now.”

Cassandra chortled knowingly, “Yes, of course I do. But he has never been comfortable around me, and I didn’t think my probing would help the matter.” Funny, she never seemed reluctant to interrogate Tharin. “It means a lot that he could tell you everything. He didn’t disclose most of the details even to me, but I assume he did to you?”

“Yes, everything.” At least, the magnitude of the information he had received from Cullen made it difficult to imagine the man had held anything back. “Every single thing.”

The Seeker looked concerned as she said, “I hope you were kind to him.”

Tharin sighed. “I hope I was, too.”

***

Tharin was walking down Haven’s thoroughfare when Varric Tethras approached.

“Hey, do you have a minute?”

Now that he was done with the Seeker, it was Varric’s turn. Of course.

The Herald observed with some irony that Cullen was right about his being the de facto leader of the Inquisition. Now everybody wanted to speak to him about something, and his time had become a commodity that caused heated competitions. He begrudgingly recognized that the unwanted position of leadership has already been foisted upon him and it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“Of course, my friend. What can I do for you this fine afternoon?” It took some effort to put up a front for Varric’s sake. The dwarf was not an easy person to fool and he knew that. But it didn’t hurt to try, did it?

Yet Varric dawdled. Even from his limited interactions with the man, Tharin knew he was not one to hesitate before speaking. Thus, whatever that was coming had to be important, or at the very least incredibly uncomfortable to bring up.

“I saw you talking to Curly… uh, I mean, Commander Cullen last night. And… I think I heard some things about Kirkwall mentioned?”

Tharin felt his face crumble. Of course, the one time he needed to keep a secret tightly bottled up, the secret was already on a walkabout all on its own.

“Look, it’s obvious things were said in confidence, so I won’t pry – as much as I would love to. You should know though that things got real dark for Curly in Kirkwall.” Then, Varric’s booming baritone softened to a low murmur. “Shit, it got real dark for all mages and templars. That’s got to leave some lasting damage.”

The alpine wind sent a chill down Tharin’s spine. Here was someone who knew of Cullen’s past and perhaps judged him for his deeds. The young man did not have the courage to confront directly, so he asked meekly, “So… You think the Commander doesn’t deserve to stay?”

Varric’s eyes widened. “Oh. No, I didn’t mean to imply that he’s unsuited to lead the troops. I just meant that you should be careful around him. Not to infantilize the guy, but he’s got to be fragile.” The man sighed and threw his hands up. “Aw, forget it. Just be a good friend to him. He can certainly use a good friend.”

Tharin felt his muscles relax. He wasn’t aware of how tense his shoulders were. “You mean, like you and the Champion of Kirkwall?”

“Sure, why not. If you want to use that as an example.” Varric shrugged, but the young man was sure he saw the dwarf’s eyes turn soft and wistful.

“All right, that’s enough sentimental crap from me today.” Varric gulped the cold air and stretched. “I’m an open book. Well, not literally, but you get the gist. Come by when you’re free and I can tell you about the Champion and whatever else you are curious about.”

***

As usual, the Inquisition soldiers were hard at training as their Commander watched.

“All right, find your sparring partner and practice the defensive stance,” he shouted, but his mind was somewhat preoccupied.

Andraste preserve him, what had gotten into him last night? After seeing the Herald at morning training and the war council, Cullen felt more than a little ludicrous for having dumped all his problems on a fresh-faced, innocent young man. He had no doubt traumatized Tharin with his stories. It would have been easy enough to just mention that he had stopped taking lyrium and leave it at that.

Yet there was something so inviting about the Herald. His youthful optimism and his easy charm, everything that the Commander lacked, comforted him more than he had ever expected. It convinced him that this time things were different, that he was fighting the right battle for the right cause with the right people.

It did feel good to tell Tharin everything. He knew it was a self-centered thing to do, but it eased the burden of his past more than a little bit. At least one person in this harsh world accepted him unreservedly and it made his heart soar. He felt like he could accomplish anything and everything. It was an exhilarating sensation he had not felt since before Kinloch Hold.

“Ser, a package for you from his worship.”

A courier interrupted his train of thought. Cullen unfolded his arms and took the pack. It was a cuboid object, wrapped artlessly with stationery paper, his name carefully written out in a rounded handwriting.

When he tore open the wrapping, he found a book with a picture of two lovers on the cover. One was a woman in templar armor, the other was a man in a mage robe. A note fell from its pages.

_My dear Cullen,_

_This book reminded me of you. You mentioned that you used to enjoy this type of literature, and I hope you still do. Because otherwise this is a terrible gift, which would make me a bad gift giver._

_Josephine assigned it to me last week. She said it was the latest novella to hit the salon scene in Orlais and ordered me to read it in preparation for my interactions with the noble ladies of the court._

_I am a tad worried she has plans for me that involve a decked out duchess, me stuffed into a garish suit, and a grandiose wedding ceremony followed by a revoltingly gargantuan reception, but I’ve found I am more than capable of dodging unwanted responsibilities._

_An assignment this is not, at least for you. I promise, it isn’t all just fluffy drivel. The author presents some intriguing arguments on the concept of divine intervention. I hope you enjoy it. I did, surprisingly enough._

_Always yours,_

_Tharin_

Cullen’s scarred lips curled upward despite himself. His heart sped up as he pictured Tharin thinking of him throughout the day, agonizing over the gift and the note. He addressed him _my dear Cullen_ and finished the message with _always yours_. Even if it was out of pity, Cullen felt hope. The note was undeniable proof that he was no longer alone. Someone cared.

Tharin had turned on the light in Cullen, brightening even the darkest, most haunted recesses in the attic of his memory. It was the kind of light that burned too radiantly to suppress, and Cullen knew he was done trying.

It had already grown into love, his very first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this (really) love that Cullen's feeling? Next up, the Herald's past.
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	4. The Embraces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! References to murder and mild PTSD.

The cold fogs rolling down from the Frostbacks had all but dispersed by the time Tharin and Cullen met for their usual morning training. Despite the early hour, the young man felt invigorated by an unlikely duo of freezing alpine air and sizzling sunlight that prickled his exposed skin. It was strange to think that in this land of permafrost the sun could still shine so brightly, chasing the night away with the might of a charging horde.

Nonetheless, the blazing spring sun was not enough to blind them to the sickly swirl of cloud and magic to the west, more apparent this high in the mountains. Cullen seemed undeterred by it, but the Breach reminded the Herald of the grave responsibilities on his shoulders. It was just easier to look away, to ignore its existence. For a little while, anyway. He always faced east when they sparred.

The two men strolled to a clearing in comfortable silence, not far from the hamlet, but far enough that they could avoid prying eyes. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to concentrate. For wherever the Herald went, there were at least two curious refugees, a few enraptured Chantry sisters, or pious pilgrims gathered just to gawk, never to talk or even to touch him with reverence like some might do to the Divine.

Tharin never needed to think about it before, as he had never held a position of significance. But being watched silently, as the townsfolk were wont to do, was far more unnerving than being grilled for answers by Cassandra. For a man like Tharin who preferred to neatly demarcate the private and the public, either was a torturous prospect, which Cullen seemed to understand.

It was the Commander, not the Seeker, who made sure they would be left alone for a good chunk of every morning and the Herald could not have been more grateful for the respite. Indeed, the hours he spent with Cullen were really the only time during the day Tharin still felt like an ordinary mortal, not a demigod or an idol the Inquisition could parade around Haven and beyond.

***

Having finally arrived at their training ground, the men drew their swords and took battle stances. Cullen’s amber eyes crinkled lightly with confidence that came from years of experience. Tharin countered the easy attitude with the intense concentration typical of a warrior and charged. The Commander, in his infinite wisdom, dodged the attack effortlessly instead of meeting it head-on.

“You mustn’t be so impatient. You will get yourself killed.”

Cullen was not the type to mince words or deflect using witticisms when it came to fighting. He said what needed to be said without flourish. It was entirely possible that if this were a real battle and the Herald were facing an enemy, he could have been killed from his carelessness. This was a fact that he needed to be reminded of.

Every impulsive jab was met with a corresponding reaction. The Commander dodged and parried. He waited for the young man to tire himself out and leave an opening.

Tharin soon lost steam as his sword began to waver from the pommel to the point. The fraction of a second he took to regulate his moves did nothing, and after an attack that seemed particularly tentative, Cullen saw an opportunity and seized it.

The Commander whirled around to evade the unsure offense, which left his opponent’s back wide open. The practice sword in his hand drew a graceful arc in the air before roughly rapping Tharin’s trapezius. The young man gasped as the strike forcibly emptied his lungs, but soon regained his foothold. Cullen’s smile broadened.

“Ready?”

“...Only… if… you are…”

This time, Cullen charged and Tharin blocked. The loud metallic clangs filled the air as the world shrank, the Herald and his Commander its only inhabitants. Beads of sweat soon dotted their faces and reflected the sunrays like the frozen lake that surrounded their clearing. They were beasts. White breaths bellowed forth from their muzzles as their furs glistened with residues of the morning fog and perspiration.

“...Rats! It’s the Herald!”

Their world suddenly expanded. The two men whipped around to see from where the exclamation emanated, and they found a young soldier with an austerely dressed elven girl. The couple giggled as they walked down to the lake shore, their steps tipsy with the elation of newfound affections. It was obvious they had been kissing before they ran into the men. Their embrace no doubt had to be intense to wholly drown out the clamor of the fight.

The girl’s face reddened like a well-ripened apple as the men gazed. Her beau noticed this, grabbed her hand and started running, with a quick tip of the head to show respect. Tharin and Cullen held their swords at their sides as they listened to the breathless laughter become distant.

“Well, I hope that recruit learns how to fight properly before he gets sent away. We need everyone to be focused, not off their heads in some silly dalliances,” Cullen complained, though not without genuine amusement in his voice.

All of a sudden, Cullen heard his sparring partner take hitched breaths. When he shifted his gaze, the Commander nearly gasped at the sight.

Tharin’s eyes were overflowing, the tears sparkling in the rising sun. His left hand clutched at his chest, tinting his torso green.

Cullen thought the young man was breathtakingly beautiful and his heart broke a bit as Tharin began to weep in earnest.

The Herald’s sword dropped to the ground with a loud clang. His wide shoulders hunched over and shook ceaselessly. Tharin nevertheless tried to hide the tears by covering his face.

“For… give… me…” He murmured through the sobs, but Cullen wasn’t sure if the apology was directed at him or at someone else.

After giving the other man a minute, Cullen approached to rub his back and hummed.

“Why don’t we take a break? Let’s go sit over there, by that palisade.”

***

Tharin picked up the practice sword and sat down on the only patch free of snow in the clearing. Cullen haphazardly plunked down on the snow next to him. The young man stared into the distance, and the Commander kept his eyes focused on him and waited patiently. Eventually the Herald exhaled and began quietly.

“I apologize for that display.”

Cullen finally looked away. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

“I know I need to be stronger. I know… I just… It’s hard to control emotions sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The air hung heavy between them. The Commander did not know what to say, or rather what he should say. He again waited until Tharin started talking.

“…I fell in love. With the mage I was supposed to keep tabs on.”

Cullen could feel his heart squeeze. Leliana had taken him, Josephine, and Cassandra aside to mention something to this effect a week after their half-successful expedition to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Spymaster was insistent. _We must not coddle him. He may be young, but he needs to know that he must be more than a man now. He must break bonds with the past and become the Herald the world needs._

At the time Cullen didn’t realize the significance of Leliana’s discovery. It seemed like a youthful indiscretion more than anything. He knew trysts between templars and mages weren’t all that uncommon in some more liberal Circles. But as he listened to words tumble out of Tharin like water from a tipped cup, he realized that it was something far more… painful.

“His name was Kyre, but we all called him Kyr. He was… He was my first love. He was always talking about the world beyond the Circle. Oh, he knew he could never see the places he dreamt about, there was no doubt about that. But whenever we talked about places like the deserts of the Anderfels or the jungles beyond the Korcari Wilds, I could see his eyes light up with unbound excitement.

“We planned adventures to places where there were no people. No mages or templars. It would be… It would have been just us.”

_Thus the interest in travel logs_ , Cullen noted. Tharin took a deep breath and continued in a strained voice.

“We also talked about our families, a lot. When I told him about my mum being elven, he got me books on the history of elves and tried to get me to learn Elvish. He didn’t know anything about the Dalish or the City Elves, but he taught himself everything in a few weeks’ time.”

The Commander saw two eyes filled with equal parts of sorrow and mirth looking back. “Your reading that book reminded me a little bit of how Kyr was then. You looked so serious, just like him.

“When he spoke Elvish to me, all I could do was just laugh and tell him that he was probably more elven by that point than my mum ever was. Kyr pouted for three days after that, but he still showed up to our secret spot in the Circle library.

“Whenever I saw his face, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning like a simpleton. And it became harder and harder for me to talk with him about our adventures, because I knew I couldn’t make them happen for him. I knew I didn’t have the power. But my pain let me know that I was in love with this man, and that I wanted to see him happy.”

A genuine smile bloomed on Tharin’s face, only to disappear moments later like a puddle’s waves.

Cullen asked cautiously, “Did he love you back?”

Tharin snorted ruefully. “Not at first. He thought I was trying to entrap him somehow. Maybe report him to the Knight-Commander for trying to consort with a templar. But one night, when we were in our corner of the library, away from other people, I couldn’t stop myself. I kissed him. And he kissed me back. Or, at least, I think he kissed me back. I was so nervous that all I could think about was whether Kyr could hear my heart pounding.”

Cullen felt the corners of his mouth turn upward despite himself. Though inexperienced, he was not totally unfamiliar with how intoxicating a growing love could be.

The Commander had inferred from his previous conversations with Tharin that he was stationed in Hasmal when he was a templar. He knew it to be far less oppressive than other Circles, like the Gallows – a nightmare of a place for him and all the other unfortunate souls stuck there – for instance.

And that Tharin and Kyr were both men. There was no good reason for the Chantry to deliberately break them up so long as the couple kept quiet. Their union couldn’t produce the children with magical powers that the Chantry was so deathly afraid of.

So, Cullen could not fathom the reason behind Tharin’s loss of Kyr. But he knew it was coming. The Spymaster left out the gory details, but she told them how it ended. It ended terribly.

“We weren’t very good at keeping our courtship secret. We were too young and too idealistic, I think. We believed in the goodness of everyone. He didn’t hesitate to tell his mage friends, and I mentioned it to my trusted comrades. And then the story spread. I think everyone in the Circle knew about us by the end of the first month.

“But there was this brute: Leland. He always had issues with the fact that I was half-elven and that I wasn’t ashamed of it. He and his brutish friends would taunt me whenever they could and when no one was watching, they would beat me up roundly.”

Tharin suddenly grinned sheepishly as he tightly gripped his sword. “That’s why I got good at fighting. I know I will never be as good as you or Cassandra, but… I was able to take care of myself against Leland and his cronies.” Then his face darkened. “Not Kyr though.”

_Sweet Andraste, what did they do?_ Cullen thought.

As if to answer his thought, Tharin paused for no more than a couple seconds. “Leland was frustrated that he couldn’t get to me, so he got to Kyr. He was a great scholar but not a capable mage. He constantly lit things on fire by accident. And that was the excuse they used.”

Tharin’s grip on the hilt became even tighter and his knuckles whitened.

“I cannot tell you how it happened exactly, but I know Leland’s goons cornered Kyr in the Circle courtyard. That much is clear. Even with two-dozen templars and mages shuffling about, no one intervened to help the young mage in distress.

“They stabbed Kyr in the daytime, in the middle of that Maker-damned courtyard. I ran toward Kyr and they were all smirking, holding blood-spattered daggers. They lied that Kyr was trying to set them on fire, that he became possessed.”

The Herald’s face started to betray emotions again, but he firmly closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.

“I held Kyr’s head on my lap as he died. They stabbed him so many times that he did not get the chance to say goodbye. He couldn’t even hear me say… that I loved him one last time. I know us templars can’t feel anything magical, but I felt it, Commander. I felt Kyr’s soul leave this world.

“I found out later that the Knight-Commander at the time did not view our relationship favorably and purposefully did not intervene in time to save Kyr. And the First Enchanter had no real power. Kyr and I were the only ones truly unaware of the general mood, and everyone else who knew did nothing.”

Cullen roughly swallowed a lump back down his throat. Every muscle in his body was taut with the anger and sorrow that he felt for this young man.

But his mind had another agenda. It drew a scene in which Cullen saw himself holding a dagger, merrily stabbing Kyr. That was what he did in Kinloch and then again in Kirkwall. All those poor souls who failed their Harrowing, and those who dared to voice their dissension, struck down by him and his templars. Was his righteous anger at the young man’s plight justifiable? Guilt spread like oil, ruining everything in its way.

The Commander’s mind would not free him without further torment. Every part of his past connected and fused into a tapestry of horror. If he had been more sympathetic, if only he had listened more, if he didn’t act like such a coward, then neither Kinloch nor Kirkwall would have happened. He was a brute. A thug. The lone survivor. He did not deserve clemency.

Cullen realized that they sat there in the clearing for what seemed like an eternity in complete silence, but he could not utter a word. He vainly tried to not cry out by forcing his mind to some inane task, like counting the number of mountain peaks he could see from their position. One, two, three, four, five…

The specters of carnage and destruction, demons and abominations interrupted the laborious task as they rapidly flashed in Cullen’s head. He could hear echoes of screams.

The Commander wondered if what Tharin felt in Hasmal was anything like what he felt in Kinloch and in Kirkwall. That gluey and nauseating feeling of guilt, separate yet equal in measure from the knowledge that he was the sole templar survivor of Kinloch, and that the Kirkwall Rebellion was perhaps entirely preventable if not for him.

But this was Tharin’s story, not his. Cullen had no right to commandeer it with his stray thoughts. He turned to the Herald as he tried to suppress the images and sounds of horror in his head.

In turn, Tharin’s demeanor was suddenly evocative of someone decades older than his age, as if everything was drained out of him. “On the day of Kyr’s funeral I gave up on the Order. I left the Circle and quit lyrium.”

“I… see.” The response was feeble, but that was the best Cullen could do. At least the unending horror in his mind was beginning to subside.

“I know my purpose.” The depthless anger was gone in Tharin’s voice, replaced by quiet determination. It held a strength that Cullen had never heard from the young man before.

“I’ve been given a chance. I will sacrifice everything that I have, everything that I am, to find a way to protect those without power… For people to live without some injustice or misfortune striking down on them. They all deserve that.”

_But not you?_ Cullen thought worriedly.

Tharin was almost whispering now, “I failed Kyr. I won’t fail you or the Inquisition. I will die before letting that happen.”

Cullen’s mind had quieted down at last, only for grief and fear for the Herald to overtake the newly vacant space. Grief for the loss that this beautiful man had to experience. Fear that this man might forfeit his life to the Maker so the world could be saved.

Cullen reached out and wrapped his left arm around Tharin, pulling him closer until the other man’s head tipped and came to rest on his shoulder. He could feel Tharin relax and then suddenly start quaking, as tears started to flow again. Without another word, Cullen brought the other arm around and held the young man tightly.

The day was new, and many tasks awaited him, but Cullen stayed with Tharin in his arms.

***

The cold in the air settled heavily and refused to leave Haven that day. In the evening, canvases flapped violently as a gale swept away any lingering warmth from the rows of shabby military tents. Cullen was in his tent, busy with his official documents.

All of a sudden, the sound of wind was interrupted by an unexpected voice.

“Commander, are you in?” It was Tharin. Cullen’s ears perked up.

“Uh… Yes, your worship. Please, come in.” The Commander quickly scribbled his signature on a reconnaissance report and looked up. In front of him stood the mighty Herald of Andraste, his cheeks fiery from the cold, his back bent severely, and his shoulders hunched even though the top of his head was nowhere near the ridge.

But the young man had a good reason to try to shrink his body. His bulky frame had to share a cramped third of the tent with heaps of paperwork, books stacked carelessly, and a clutter of armor and weapons. When he tried to shift slightly in an attempt to find a better spot to stand, he immediately tripped on a creased throw rug and came dangerously close to toppling down.

Cullen was behind his desk, flanked by his tiny cot topped with a tattered wool blanket and a fur comforter.

The Commander apologized, trying not to look too obviously entertained by the Herald’s clumsiness, “I’m sorry, I haven’t had the chance to clear out the tent since the Hinterlands.”

But it was Tharin who looked contrite. “We really ought to find you a better accommodation. I will bring it up with Josephine tomorrow.”

“There’s no need. I am quite comfortable here.” The Commander’s words were sincere, but he was confronted with a different reality as he rounded the desk and tried to tidy up some of the mess around Tharin.

Realizing it was futile, Cullen chuckled awkwardly and leaned against the desk. The tent was nowhere large enough to comfortably contain all the miscellany in addition to a full-sized desk, a cot, and two well-built warriors.

“Cullen, you should know by now there is no need to hold back. I want you to feel at home. And  
I _know_ this tent is not big enough for you. If you need anything…”

Cullen crinkled his eyes appreciatively, “You have my word that I will make fuss if something does bother me. But really, Lady Montilyet sleeps in her office and Sister Leliana has the same accommodation as I do. All our soldiers are sleeping in tents in groups of threes and fours. I cannot in good conscience ask for a preferential treatment.”

Suddenly, Tharin’s cheeks became even redder – an astounding feat, to be sure – and he twiddled his fingers nervously while he haltingly suggested, “You know… My cabin is big enough to hold one more bed, and we could… probably fit your desk in there too. Um… Why don’t you… take that space? Uh, well, that is… only if you are comfortable moving in with me, of course.”

After the young man cleared his throat, he became more animated. “And you know, your moving could… free up this tent for more recruits! Yes, that would be most beneficial!” He then quickly glanced at the stacks of books and finished, “If you’d like, I will also get you a proper bookcase,” as if that would finalize the sale.

It was Cullen’s turn to blush and stammer. “I… I am not sure… I don’t like the idea of being separated from the troops. I will be inside the walls while they train and sleep outside… It seems unfair. And what if there is an emergency, and…”

“Ah, yes, right. You are absolutely right…” Tharin trailed off, looking distinctly disappointed. Cullen kicked himself in his mind as he thought, _You do want this, you blundering idiot!_

The wintry chill finally breached the thick canvas. White breaths mixed and formed a cloud. After he rejected the kind offer, Cullen was lost on where to direct the conversation and began to feel around tentatively. He had to figure out what Tharin was truly up to.

“Forgive me, your worship, but… I don’t believe you came by just to inspect my living conditions. Is there something I can do for you?”

More fidgeting, like a child that anticipated a scolding. “Actually… I wanted to apologize for this morning.”

“For what?”

“My conduct was unbecoming for a member of the Inquisition. Bawling like a babe and making you listen to my sob story, when you’ve been through much worse… It was extremely unworthy of me.” The only thing this bout of self-criticism lacked was a deep bow of penitence. It was as though the young man was atoning for an unforgivable crime.

Cullen’s love for this man, the countless tears and open wounds and all other hurts that made this man, blazed like freshly stirred embers. He inhaled deeply and straightened his back. With a purposeful stride, he closed the remaining space between him and Tharin, and hugged the young man as tightly as his plated body allowed. It was a crash, a strike, a collision of metal armor and thick fabrics and soft flesh.

The air stopped flowing, as did their breaths. With their bodies enfolded, he whispered in Tharin’s ear, “Don’t apologize. You are more than worthy. You are incredible.”

How desperately he wanted to reassure Tharin.

But as soon as he became fully aware of what he had done, all sureness of the moment faded away unceremoniously. The Commander let go and backed away a few steps, bumping his seat into the desk. His face flushed furiously as he stuttered, “I–I’ve made a terrible mistake. I wasn’t thinking–”

Before the nervous man could fumble his way through an apology, however, Tharin closed the distance and linked his arms around the Commander. Another tight embrace followed.

“Thank you.”

Cullen could feel Tharin’s warm breath spelling out the words in his ear. A chill traveled down his spine. All he could do was stroke the young man’s wide back in return.

And they stood there holding each other for a while.

***

Cullen’s impossibly cluttered tent was an entire universe in itself. It contained anything and everything the Commander might require, with the obvious exception of a fireplace. After they finally broke off the impromptu embrace, the Commander produced a well-worn kettle, two homely mugs marred by hairline cracks, and a delicate wooden box. He murmured tenderly, “Come with me,” and went outside to the training yard.

Several soldiers lounged around a campfire, shooting the breeze and trying to thaw their hands. When they saw their Commander approaching, they instantly leapt to their feet, their previously relaxed postures now straight as a razor. Cullen’s eyes crinkled benignly as the man motioned to ease them. The soldiers sat back down, but their eyes were still focused on their Commander, almost like war hounds waiting for orders.

After filling the kettle with fresh snow, the man hung it on a metal tripod over the fire and looked back. When he saw the Herald standing by his tent with folded arms and casually crossed legs watching him, he beamed bashfully.

Tharin had made a habit of observing Cullen, unbeknownst to Cullen himself of course, and in just two months gained an even greater respect for him. The man knew how to win over the hearts of his soldiers, and he achieved it effortlessly.

The Commander was a drillmaster, but there was no streak of the sadism often found in a typical disciplinarian. Everything he did was to make sure his recruits were prepared, to ensure they would survive in the battlefield. And the soldiers knew.

He treated all of them as his equals outside the professional confines of the Inquisition, and many if not most had never experienced such positive relations with their superiors. He was a capable general who also valued the lives of his charges, and they would stop at nothing to prove themselves when the time came.

If the young man were to point all this out, Cullen would scoff. Yet there he was: Commander of the Inquisition’s forces demonstrating his quiet charisma. Unintended, but real. Intuitive and guileless. It was clear to Tharin that he made the right decision. The Inquisition needed Cullen. It was made a great deal better by his dedication.

Cullen waved Tharin over when the kettle started to whistle. He set down the mugs on the ground and opened the wooden container. The tangy scent of dried ginger, sweetened with sugar, burst forth from a felt pouch inside.

The Commander took out four pieces of crystallized roots, put two in each mug, and poured the boiling water. He then handed one to Tharin, holding it by the rim. The young man accepted it gratefully.

Looking rather diffident, Cullen apologized. Unnecessary, but endearing all the same. “I am sorry. These cups are past their prime, but they are the only ones and I’ve had them forever… Never had the heart to throw them away.”

The flickering flame highlighted every bump and groove on Cullen’s face, but the contrast actually softened his expression as it brought out his apologetic glimmer in his wildflower-honey eyes. Tharin wanted to reach out and trace his finger on the sharp scar above the man’s lips, but quickly shoved down the urge. He shook his head and turned to face the campfire.

The two men sat shoulder to shoulder. They sipped their tea and listened to the fire crackling cheerfully. Sugar tempered the spiciness of ginger and the warmth traveled down the throat smoothly. Both men exhaled contentedly.

The Commander stated impassively, “It _would_ be a waste to leave a perfectly good space unoccupied, since we all live in cramped quarters… And I do miss having a proper working fireplace.”

An extra heavy heartbeat thudded in Tharin. “You mean…”

“I will feel guilty for indulging myself, but… yes, I’d like to move in, if you are still offering.”

“Yes! Yes, I am still offering!” The words zipped across like a sparrow and Tharin saw Cullen smirk. He cleared his throat and added with a tone he hoped was suitably dignified, “I will ask Josephine to procure a bed for you and we will have someone move your things.”

“That is wholly unnecessary, your worship. I already have a bed. Plus, I will be continuing to conduct the day-to-day business by the training yard, so most of my possessions will need to stay where they are. The rest, I can move by myself.”

Now was the chance for Tharin to even the score. “Commander, I don’t think your cot actually qualifies as a bed. Besides, your time is more valuable than you realize. It would be better to have one of the idle Chantry sisters move your things. They will be jumping at the chance to touch the personal effects of our stunningly handsome Commander. It will be like a gift from Andraste herself.”

Cullen chided, but there was mirth in his voice, “You are teasing me.”

“Well, you do make it rather easy for me.”

The Commander’s amber eyes seemed to radiate so much warmth as they focused on Tharin. He chuckled and shook his head slowly.

In the silence that followed, it was surprisingly Cullen who spoke first. “We never got the chance to discuss that book I was reading. I’ve picked up some interesting tidbits.”

Tharin stopped in mid-sip and looked at the Commander inquisitively. “Oh? Anything to help with the Breach?”

“Sadly, no. Nothing so worthy as that. But they are still interesting.”

“Why don’t you come join me at Flissa’s tavern sometime? I’m there every evening.” Gradually coming to the realization that he just portrayed himself as a drunkard, Tharin hastily qualified his remark. “I… I’m not there to drink most of the times. It’s the only place in Haven that serves food on actual plates with silverware, and I like watching people. Their mood lets me know if I’m doing my job well.”

The Commander thought briefly. “I don’t believe I’ve set a foot inside that place.”

“Truly? Then I insist. We can talk about whatever you’d like.”

An unusually naughty smile materialized on Cullen’s face. “Do you promise? Whatever I would like?” To this, the young man guffawed and nodded. With an easy tone, the Commander assented, “All right, I accept your invitation.”

Tharin raised his mug. “I look forward to your company, Commander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the Fallow Mire, the walking corpses, and some fish stew.
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	5. Uneasy Lies the Hand that Carries the Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us take a short breather from all that tension between Tharin and Cullen, shall we? A bit of a palate cleanser, if you will…

Ghoulish.

That was the only way to describe the Fallow Mire. Just… ghoulish.

Truly, this was a land forsaken by the Maker. As its appellation suggested, the region was covered with bogs and marshes. But even the drier parts never remained completely dry with the rainstorms that came and went so frequently. As the sunlight waned, will-o’-the-wisps would radiate eerie lights through the precipitation, beckoning the travelers to their unknown fate.

Not that the Herald felt especially compelled to explore the source of those will-o’-the-wisps. His party was too occupied with fighting Avvars and the undead.

Most of the Fereldan inhabitants here were felled by a plague in the year prior and the survivors fled after Avvars arrived from the south.

It wasn’t as though Tharin particularly disliked Avvars. He had no opinion on them whatsoever before, though he had imagined Kyr and himself living among them when the two discussed far-off places they could never visit. That the mage would never visit. They would have lived off the land as Avvars do, away from the watchful eyes of Theodosians, and with just each other to hold onto.

But this was now, and he certainly did not appreciate the Hand of Korth capturing Inquisition scouts and challenging him to a duel. The young man and his companions already had their hands full with the Breach and the Mage-Templar War without having to make a detour to this marshy backwater.

Still, Tharin was not about to let some misguided tribesmen execute the Inquisition scouts whose sole goal was reconnaissance, not combat. He had every intention of keeping his promise to the Commander, that he would serve and protect those without power to the best of his ability. If a megalomaniac who named himself the Hand of Korth wanted to duel him, then that was what the man was going to get.

At least the tribesmen were conscious and could be reasoned with. They even met an Avvar shaman named Amund who was downright pleasant. The undead were a different story.

The bogs and marshes were filled with decaying bodies of those lost to the plague and years of warfare. This meant that demons would have plenty of targets when they desired to leave the Fade and explore this side of the Veil. The result? An endless supply of possessed corpses. Every time someone in the party even dipped a toe in the muddy waters of the Mire, the undead would swarm and overwhelm the party.

Eventually, however, confronting the undead became repetitive and tiresome. The monotony was broken up by Cassandra and Varric, who apparently decided this was the perfect time to start arguing.

Marching stridently on the gravels of the old thoroughfare, the Seeker fumed, “All I am saying is that you have proven yourself to be most irresponsible regarding the important matters at hand. How can I trust you if you won’t tell me where Hawke is?”

“I told you already. I _do not_ know where she is.”

“Lies.”

The dwarf grunted before retorting peevishly, “You interrogated me! You punched me and threw the book at me, literally! And yet I told you everything I know!”

“More lies, Varric.”

“Seeker, I’m warning you. You are this close to getting me mad. And Bianca was just warming up to you too.”

Tharin welcomed the brief pause in between the argument. He turned and focused his eyes on the rain-soaked road. They had quite a way to go before arriving at Hargrave Keep where the Avvars made their base of operation. Of course, the ceasefire wasn’t likely to last long.

Cassandra exhaled frustratedly and asserted, “I am not trying to hunt down Hawke. All I want is her help with the Inquisition. Stop being so unreasonable.”

“ _I_ am being unreasonable? Ha! Seeker, you are ordering me to hand over my personal journal. The last time I checked, you can’t boss me around like one of your tranquils.’

“That is a gross misrepresentation of the situation. And anyway, templars, and not the Seekers of Truth, guard tranquils.”

Well, this was not about to get resolved fast, and their vociferous voices must have been loud enough to wake the undead. Tharin could see the reanimated bodies emerging from the water.

The Herald snapped, “Will you two please be quiet?” He almost shouted _shut up_ but caught himself just in time. Varric would appreciate his vexation, but the Seeker was more likely to bristle at the suggestion. “I see at least six undead approaching. We need to put our guard up.” He unsheathed his greatsword and jumped over the crumbling stone wall of the thoroughfare.

The dwarf was anything but serious. As he readied Bianca, he mocked, “Hey Seeker, maybe you can ask Hawke to take down those undead. After all, you expect her to do everything else, save the world and whatnot!”

“Very mature, Varric. I will read your journal, nonetheless. It may contain clues as to where Hawke may be located,” Cassandra still insisted with her sword and heater shield at the ready.

One of the undead finally reached the party and lunged at Tharin. At the right moment Solas put up an arcane barrier. The undead looked mystified as it failed to inflict any damage on Tharin with its tarnished sword. The young man seized the chance and swung his greatsword as hard as possible to lop off its head. The rotting skin sloughed off as the skull rolled on the ground. The rest of the body simply crumbled into a pile of bones and decomposed organs

Feeling the thumps of his heartbeat in his ears, Tharin shouted, “I will steal Varric’s journal and give it to you if you help me take down these undead now!”

Cassandra grunted and finally joined the Herald at his side.

As they leapt in and out of Solas’s arcane barrier to slash at the enemies, the young man yelled crossly, “Much obliged.”

***

The party ended up being interrupted five more times by groups of the walking corpses before they stumbled upon a high ground and encamped for the night.

After a full day of traipsing across the wetlands in the miserable rain and taking down countless dozens of the undead, there was only so much more Tharin was willing to do. At the new campsite he helped pitch two tents as quickly as possible, crawled into one of them, and lay down on his back with his hands gathered at his chest.

The steel armor was supposedly solid and sturdy enough to keep the chills at bay, but the young man still felt trapped in the cold. Every minute of every hour in this wretched land he was cold. And he was tired, tired enough to ignore his stomach growling angrily for sustenance.

He dozed off for a while, but the fatigue stuck to him like a leech.

The slumber came as lightning would but left as a snail would, leaving a sticky trail in the form of hazy mind that would not ease. It was pure luxury to lie in the darkened tent even while the reality of his situation crashed against the shores of his conscious. After conceding the fact that staring up at the ridge of the tent was not likely to help him achieve any additional sense of inner peace, the Herald sat up begrudgingly.

Tharin laboriously worked his hands to remove his leather boots one by one. He had those boots since before he left the Hasmal Circle. It was long past the time to part with them. Their seams were coming apart and they have begun to leak, which meant his socks were now wet and ripe.

He scrunched his face as he took the socks off as well. In addition to the musty, pungent odor that wafted in his face, the abrasive textile scraped against many blisters that came to adorn his poor feet.

He checked each sore but could not do much more than that. It was not as though they were back at Haven, where he could solicit one of many healers to tend to them. Nor were they at the Fisher’s End Camp, the only established Inquisition campsite in the region, where there would at least be some elfroot and dawn lotus ointments.

At least Solas was here. The mage could help get rid of some of the blisters, despite there being so many of them. Tharin already began to feel sorry for Solas, who would have to handle his malodorous feet.

Grumbling silently, he stuck out his hands outside the tent flap to wring his disgusting socks dry. He would have to keep wearing them and the boots unless they could loot some decent new ones in one of the many abandoned cabins.

“Soup’s on if you’re hungry.” Varric walked over and informed, giving him an inquisitive look.

As Tharin struggled to put the socks back on, he remembered the forgotten obligation. “Ah, Blight! It was my turn to cook.”

“Don’t worry. You looked beat. Chuckles volunteered and I helped.”

“You did? What did you make?”

“Bouillabaisse, if you are Orlesian. Fish stew, if you are a Free Marcher.”

The young man paused. “Uh… The fish… came from the marsh, didn’t they?” _Where the dead lie_ , he finished the sentence in his mind.

Varric snickered. “Don’t worry. I poured the whole bottle of that liquor we found. What was it, Gar… someone’s Backcountry Reserve? Boy, was it potent.” The dwarf shrugged as his smirk grew, “That should have counteracted any dead body parts the fish might have swallowed, I hope… Besides, we gutted them first.”

“Holy Maker, you make it sound like the most scrumptious fare ever.”

“Just be grateful that someone at Haven had enough sense to put a packet of herbs and seasoning in Chuckles’s haversack.”

Varric turned to leave but his steps halted almost immediately. Looking obviously compunctious, he hummed, “Hey, I am sorry about the mess earlier.”

Trying to squeeze his feet inside the sodden boots and failing, Tharin glowered. His voice, however, remained good-natured. “You mean how you and Cassandra argued, leaving Solas and I to eliminate all the undead?”

“Yes, that.”

“No harm done. Plus, Cassandra was the one who provoked you, not the other way around.”

Varric chortled and shook his head. “Right? Maker’s balls, she’s too much.”

“Indeed.”

Tharin exhaled sharply when he stood up. The blisters were painful, but he had to eat something. And the fish stew smelled inexplicably delicious. Together, the two approached the campfire and the pot. Without acknowledging their presence or greeting, Solas ladled two full bowls of the stew and handed them one by one.

***

After the supper warmed him up and fortified him considerably, Tharin sat on a mossy boulder by the campfire and busied himself with cleaning his armor and greatsword. It did feel somewhat meaningless, but it was an entrenched habit. Moreover, he had no desire to smell like the undead in addition to smelling like a wet mabari.

At least now that the sweat from the day’s travels was dry, he only stank like a regular mabari. He confirmed by discreetly sniffing his cotton shirt. Yes, definitely a regular mabari. Constant adventuring made him appreciate the small things. Smelling not quite like a wild animal, just a domesticated hound, counted as a small blessing.

Potable water was precious in this part of Thedas, so he dared not waste it on cleaning his armor. Instead, he had to make do with puddle water on the ground in front of him. Fortunately, it seemed clear enough as he dipped the cleaning rag into it. He felt Cassandra approaching but ignored her until she was seated on the slab of stone that leaned against his boulder.

The Seeker made a noise that didn’t quite translate into discernible words. When he paused his hands and turned, he saw the woman looking noticeably contrite. Rather unusual for her. “I apologize… for the fight between Varric and I.”

He picked up a pauldron and began to polish ferociously. “You could have gotten us killed, Seeker.”

Cassandra emitted a subdued hum. “I doubt that. You dispatched all the undead without my help well enough.”

“Barely,” the young man spat. But in all honesty, he could stay mad at the woman as much as he could stay angry at Varric. He liked her despite everything. The Herald faced her and gave a thin simper.

Looking curiously hesitant, Cassandra took a minute before asking, “How are you?”

The Herald snorted in amusement. “Fine and dandy. How about you?”

“I don’t mean today. I mean being the Herald of Andraste.”

Tharin turned and stared at Cassandra. Was it a concern in her face? There were deep grooves on her brows, and her full lips were curling downward. The olive brown eyes were warm and caring, reflecting the campfire like waveless lakes.

Feeling like he witnessed something he should not have, Tharin faced away. “It’s… certainly an experience.”

Cassandra leaned forward and spoke quietly, “I want you to know, I have no regrets. Maybe if we’d found Hawke or the Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you. But he did.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry you couldn’t find Hawke or the Warden.”

“Don’t be. I don’t know what’s to come, but… you’re more than I could have hoped for.”

The compliment felt genuine, but it was too much. “It’s too early to say for sure whether my tenure as the Herald would be a success or a failure. We only have an untested hypothesis for closing the Breach.”

“But we are here to rescue the scouts. You inspire people to do good. That’s half the battle.”

A shadow passed over the Seeker’s face, and some part of Tharin braced for the unknown that was coming. “I do want to ask… if you are taking care of yourself. Do you perhaps… require lyrium?” Cassandra hastily added, “I do not mean to push you to take it. In fact, I am against it if you can help it.”

Tharin relaxed and beamed kindly, “I know. You support Cullen in his effort to quit lyrium, so I don’t doubt that you would support me.”

Cassandra was one of the founding members of the Inquisition. She helped Tharin prove his innocence back at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She had the right to know.

“I courted a mage, back when I was in the Hasmal Circle. I assume Leliana found out and told you all about it?” Predictably, the Seeker nodded cautiously. “His name was Kyre. He helped me by making sure I took less lyrium every time. I never wanted to be a templar, and it seemed like a way to free myself from the Order.

“I suppose I never trusted the Chantry either. Anyway, you already know I’ve been free of lyrium for some time. It will stay that way. You need not worry.”

With her expression soft, Cassandra intoned contemplatively, “It is strange to think that Divine Andraste sent someone so skeptical of the Chantry and the templars as her messenger.” Her dreamy eyes snapped back into focus. “No offense.”

The young man cachinnated freely. Dipping the cleaning rag in the puddle and watching the slime of the undead dissipate into now murky water, Tharin declared lightheartedly, “None taken. Look, I will do my best to help people and rebuild this world. I’ve already made that promise to somebody. And if that is the Maker’s will, then so be it. I don’t need some organization telling me to be good to do good.”

Seemingly satisfied with his reply, the Seeker clasped Tharin’s shoulder and offered, “Would you like some help with the other pauldron?”

“If you have time.” Tharin produced another rag from his pocket and lightly tossed it to the woman.

She caught it with no effort. “For you, always.”

***

Cassandra volunteered to be the first watch of the night and left the campsite to patrol while Varric drifted to sleep in the other tent, as evinced by his loud snoring. Tharin and Solas sat in their tent tending to the young man’s blisters.

Despite his best efforts, Tharin’s naked feet wafted salty, sour odor that made Solas’s face crinkle in unmitigated disgust. Not to mention his boots and socks.

“Sorry about the smell,” said the young man apologetically. But the mage did not respond as he applied healing magic. Solas’s fingers moved nimbly as small bursts of emerald arcane energy surrounded Tharin’s soles.

After several minutes, the blisters were noticeably smaller. The throbbing pain calmed as well.

Grateful for the healing, Tharin nodded and intoned, “That feels much better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Solas gave a half grin that was probably the best he could do. The Herald had gathered that the mage wasn’t exactly the emotionally open type. “Keep the feet dry tonight. By tomorrow morning the blisters should be gone.”

The stench of his feet had so effortlessly overtaken their tent and it could use some airing out. They decided to leave the flaps open while they took a short stroll, taking advantage of a lull in the rainstorm. Making sure not to disturb the marsh itself, they sat down at the sandy water’s edge.

The waters were peaceful and with rain clouds temporarily gone, the moons shone brightly, reflecting whole on the serene marsh. The air was still humid and Tharin could sense the vapors surround him. He heard frogs croaking their merry song. The land was almost beautiful this way.

With a deep breath Solas spoke quietly, “The Veil is extremely thin here. I can feel it.”

The young man picked up a stick and proceeded to write names of Inquisition advisors on the sand in cursive for no reason. _Cullen Rutherford_. _Sister Leliana_. _Josephine Montilyet_. _Cassandra Pentaghast_.

As Tharin scribbled he countered casually, “It must be all the dead bodies, attracting demons and weakening the Veil.” The young man cocked his head in curiosity. “Though, how can you tell? It doesn’t feel any different for me other than the terrible climate.”

“You are a templar. You are as attuned to the Fade as a potato is.”

When Tharin turned brusquely and gave a look, he thought he saw a small quirk pass by Solas’s visage. The mage must have been pleased with his own joke.

Having decided to ignore that little twist in the mage’s mouth, Tharin inquired earnestly, “What about dreams? Couldn’t anyone travel to the Fade in the dream?”

Solas hummed and gave a long answer, “Technically yes. But for non-mages, intentionality is lost. You can control your actions no more than the waves can control the moons. You dream what you dream, while your consciousness slumbers. Now, if you are still taking lyrium to maintain your templar abilities, that might make a difference.”

“How so?”

“Lyrium is the material that creates a bridge across the Veil. It is linked to the Fade in ways you and your templar brothers and sisters are not. You must know that mages can enter the Fade with their consciousness fully intact by imbibing lyrium.”

“Of course. I did pay attention while I was a templar. But I didn’t think anyone truly understood how it worked or why it worked.”

“Those are excellent questions that need further research.”

“Which you are willing to undertake?”

“If the Inquisition requires it, then perhaps.” Solas nodded deliberately, but if it was in assent or in dissent, it was hard to tell. Tharin put down the stick and waited for the mage to continue. It was obvious that Solas was not done yet.

“By taking lyrium you are strengthening your bond to the Fade. It does not mean that you will be able to roam the Fade consciously, however.

“With more lyrium in your system, your presence may become stronger in the Fade, felt and appreciated by more spirits. Your dreams will be more tangible there. In short, you are likely to be noticed more by the spirits, even if you cannot communicate with them directly.”

Tharin felt fog-like dread approaching. He swallowed hard and asked timidly, “Does that mean that if I were to take lyrium, spirits… demons could target me? For possession?”

“Spiritual possession of an ordinary person is rare indeed. And only the individuals of this world can pervert the spirits into demons through corruption and preconceptions. Treat spirits fairly, and they will treat you well. You needn’t worry.”

The viscous dread refused to lift. Tharin picked up a flat pebble to skip across the water but remembered that it would stir up the undead. Instead of throwing it, he dropped it back in its spot and brushed off the errant dirt from his hands.

It was then the Anchor unexpectedly crackled. The verdigris beam broke into dizzy shards as Tharin held up his left hand and willed it to subside. After a good half minute of continuous crepitation, the Anchor slowly resumed its quiet coruscation.

The young man did not feel anything, but his heart was in his throat and nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Tharin glared at the hand, trying to think of different ways the Anchor could destroy him.

After staring at Tharin passionlessly amid interminable silence, Solas finally asked, “Has that been happening often?”

“No, but it does act up from time to time. I don’t really feel anything.” Tharin tried his hardest to put on a brave face. For what purpose, even he was not sure. But he still did. A smile.

“The Anchor is stabilized for now. I cannot guarantee that it will remain so.”

Tharin felt his fake smile breaking.

“You must let me know if the Anchor pains you. Or if you keep having the same nightmare,” added the mage coolly.

Solas looked like he wanted to say more, but no more came forth. Tharin nodded lightly in agreement.

***

Another day of traveling through the swamplands brought the party to the gates of Hargrave Keep, where the Hand of Korth awaited.

The Hand was not exactly a tough opponent. He lacked the basic skill and finesse that came from years of training. Instead, he swung a giant war hammer wildly, perhaps hoping to catch the Herald in one of those crazy oscillations.

Tharin was used to dodging. Cullen had emphasized it in their training sessions, and it was easy enough to repeat when the enemy was simply too vacuous to change the pattern of attack. In other words, the Hand of Korth was stupid.

The real problem was the party dispatching his Avvar minions. Two archers and one warrior circled around the great hall that had been transformed into an arena of a sort and hit Tharin and Cassandra alternatingly. An arrow here, a slash of a blade there. Their minds were too occupied with avoiding the Hand’s war hammer to elude the minions’ attacks as well. Perhaps a battle of attrition was their plan all along, exhausting the party before taking them out one by one.

But the Inquisition was one step ahead. Standing behind a pillar near the entrance, Solas cast Winter’s Grasp and froze the minions in their places. While Cassandra taunted and kept the attention of the Hand on her, Tharin deftly stepped out of the arena, brought a dagger out, and slit their exposed throats. Their carotid arteries exploded, and blood squirted and sprayed. The ice that encased their bodies was dyed crimson.

The Hand of Korth howled in anger. The swings became faster, more deadly. The Seeker whirled to avoid the hammer but was caught in her left side. There was no loud crack of a bone breaking, but the woman still held her side and staggered. The Hand saw this and swung his hammer her way again. Tharin felt the time stand still. Cassandra was going to be decimated and he couldn’t move fast enough to save her.

At that moment, a bolt sliced through the air and pierced the Hand’s right eye. The war hammer slowed, and the Seeker dodged out of its way only just. Another bolt soon followed and struck the Hand in his left eye. The giant Avvar struggled, but soon fell to his knees. Not missing the chance, Tharin quickly stepped and impaled the man’s heart with his greatsword.

The Hand collapsed face first and convulsed until there was a tiny groan and the body stilled.

The battle was over.

Tharin looked back and gave Varric an appreciative nod. Cassandra, winded from the exertion and the injury, still said her thanks to him as well. The dwarf beamed proudly and shouted, “You’re welcome!”

When the Herald went through the Hand of Korth’s armor, he found a rusted key. It opened the door next to the great hall.

The room was dark, except for a small torch on the wall. Tharin found the Inquisition scouts huddled together and shivering. Between the four of them they had one frayed blanket.

“Herald of Andraste!” One of the scouts croaked in a breaking voice. She immediately stood up.

Still out of breath, Tharin inquired, “I dealt with the Avvar. Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, your worship. The injured need some rest, but we can return on our own.”

The Herald sheathed his greatsword and shook his head. “Nonsense. We shall return together.”

“I can’t believe the Herald came for us.” Looking incredulous, one of the scouts crawled toward Tharin and lowered his head in deference.

With pure elation in her voice, the first scout clapped her hands together. “I told you he wouldn’t leave us.”

The mission was a success. It was time to return home.

Despite its ghoulishness, the Fallow Mire turned out to have a happy ending after all. Yet all Tharin could think of now was Cullen. He felt a sudden pang of yearning for the golden man. He couldn’t wait to see the Commander again and talk about everything that happened.

Haven was far. They had better start soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, a proper first date!
> 
> The next update will come in two waves – once on Saturday, January 9 at 2 pm EST, and another on Sunday, January 10 at 2 pm EST. Both parts deal with the same event, but from different points of view. Don’t worry, there won’t be any more chapters with alternating viewpoints after this one.
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	6. The First View: From His Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! Mild sexual content.

It took Cullen almost a fortnight to actually move into the Herald’s cabin, mainly because he insisted on sorting through everything doubly to make sure the items ended up in the right place. He had little control over his own life as a templar: obsessing over the assortment of knick-knacks he’d accumulated over his life was one of the handful ways he could take back the control.

Luckily for everyone involved, Tharin was away in the Fallow Mire all that time, so the two men could pretend the move was a smooth transition. Even though they both knew it was not.

Cullen was proud of the Herald’s progress. He wanted to make sure the soldiers were loyal to Tharin, not to him, and the more the young man made a name for himself the more likely that would happen.

According to the reports, Tharin and his party easily managed to rout the horde of Avvars who had captured Inquisition soldiers. The hostages returned to Haven unscathed, with new war stories for their drinking buddies.

Cullen was at the gate with Leliana and Josephine to welcome back the returning champions. When the Commander clasped the Herald’s forearm to greet, the young man covertly slipped him a note that read:

_Dear Cullen,_

_Please come find me at the tavern tonight. Cassandra and Varric quarreled the whole time, and I mean that literally. They missed the chance to take down a band of undead because they were deep in an argument about the Seeker’s demand to inspect the dwarf’s personal journal._

_And Solas, while helpful with all things magical, was aloof as usual. I need to talk to someone who appreciates my stupid stories._

_It would be a tremendous understatement to say I’ve missed you, but I shall say it nonetheless. I’ve missed you._

_I will be eagerly awaiting your company._

_Yours, Tharin._

Coincidentally, Cullen had missed him terribly as well.

***

The door to the Singing Maiden swung open and there stood Commander Rutherford. The man was dressed in a surprisingly smart outfit of a clean white shirt overlaid with a short indigo tunic. They were all neatly fastened with a sable leather belt at the waist. A pair of well-fitted beige wool trousers accentuated his muscular calves. His burly forearms were free of vambraces and his hands of gloves, instead showing off the many scars and burns collected over the years. He looked mildly embarrassed, but also expectant.

Flissa greeted the Commander with an overt look of surprise. It was impossible, not just rare, to see him join the Inner Circle and the soldiers for a night of drunken debauchery. Still, there was no way for her to know that the man was there for something far more wholesome and duller than what her establishment usually offered.

Cullen flashed an awkward grin and trotted up to the bar. He tried in vain to sound authoritative as he ordered, “Two steins. Fill one with your best ale and the other one with the cheapest.” He paid the woman and quickly spun around.

When Cullen found what he was looking for, the tentativeness that had been clouding his expression evaporated and he broke out in an unabashed smile. Flissa and a few more perceptive members of the Inner Circle – Varric, for starters – who were watching him felt like they just witnessed a demon crawl out from underneath a floorboard. Not only had they never seen the Commander at the tavern, they also had not once seen him out of his armor and had never witnessed the man’s face showing such elation. Maker preserve them, they were truly living the end of days.

***

The Commander was happy. His original vow to stuff his feelings down proved to be unachievable even for a short term, and once he gave in, he found his life to be infinitely more pleasant. In fact, he was rather amazed to find that he was too happy to care about the raised eyebrows of the spectators all around him. Flissa brought out the steins and he grabbed them carefully.

“Thank you.” Leaving the barkeep behind with an inexplicably disturbed look, Cullen headed to a corner table by the window, his steps cautious lest he spill a drop. When the Commander reached the destination, he was met with loose sheets of paper strewn all over the tabletop. He managed to find spots of wood not cloaked by the white of the parchments and set down the beer. Then he finally exhaled and greeted the man sitting across the table.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long, my lord.”

“Not at all. And please call me _Tharin_.”

He felt his face warm up and blurted, as if on cue, “I couldn’t possibly…”

To no surprise on the Commander’s part, the young man was effortlessly alluring. Tharin had shed all pieces of armor and cleaned off the dirt from his adventure. The simple button-up shirt and trousers were stretching from his muscles, and Cullen had to look away lest he start to ogle. He felt positively juvenile.

Tharin thankfully seemed unaware of Cullen’s dilemma and merely chuckled as he collected the sheaves of paper to clear the table. “That’s all right. Just go on pretending I don’t have a name.”

The other man instantly jumped in to help with the slips. Cullen looked at their contents and frowned.

“Are these all for work? I hope my esteemed colleagues are not working you to death. You just returned from a rescue mission.”

“Our fearless Ambassador thought it necessary to ask my opinion on every diplomatic decision, and Leliana agreed. Evidently, they pile up quickly while I am away.” Tharin yawned and stretched his large frame, his hands almost hitting the window behind him. “I tell you, I would’ve paid more attention during history lessons if I knew I would one day be forced to recite every little squabble among noble families to the two most imposing people I’ve ever met. Excluding you and the Seeker, of course.”

The Commander grinned and passed the gathered pile of paperwork. “Here. Maybe this will help.” He pushed the stein with the best brew toward the Herald. Tharin looked appreciative and swigged half of it in one go.

“Ah, much obliged. Actually, I was thinking about getting some supper. I’ll get you something too.”

“I can get them.” Cullen fumbled around trying to locate the silvers and bits he knew he had.

Tharin put his foot down and insisted. “Nonsense. You got me a pint of Haven’s finest. The least I can do is to repay your hospitality with some exceptionally terrible food.” When the young man chortled and winked, Cullen realized he knew about the difference between the two steins they shared.

The Commander quietly hoped the Herald did not think he was too poor, too miserly, or too uncouth for a nobleman like him. He then recognized what his own mind was implying and immediately shut down that avenue of thought. It was already more than enough to be able to talk to the Herald, to lay claim to his friendship. Asking for anything beyond that would be greedy of him.

“Besides–” Tharin grunted as he stood up. “I need to stretch my legs anyway.”

Cullen watched the young man coolly stroll up to Flissa. As the woman brushed back her fiery hair and lightly touched the Herald’s bicep as they spoke, he felt envy. Envy at her easy charm, at her elegant movements, at her confidence to flirt openly with the Herald. He knew his reaction was unreasonable. It was Tharin’s prerogative to court whomever he wanted, and Cullen had no right to judge one way or another.

The thing was, the young man did intimate an interest once before, but Cullen had not taken it seriously. Even under the best-case scenario, it seemed to him too improbable that Tharin would be serious about a man – a _man_! – almost ten years his senior. It made better sense to him that the man was just being flirtatious to gauge his reaction.

But more importantly, this happened long before he laid bare his past. He was not certain then how Tharin would react, whether his stories would be met with pity, derision, or something worse.

He was not even sure if the exchange was what he thought it was. Perhaps the young man was genuinely interested about his life back in Kirkwall and only asked for more details to satisfy his curiosity.

All signs pointed to another heartbreak. Cullen had had plenty of it and desired no more, especially not from Tharin. So, he preempted and told the young man, “I would value your friendship. I’m afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you will understand.” He built a fortress, a citadel of excuses, at the center of his mind where he could hide and wait. Wait until the feelings passed and he could get on with his life. By himself.

Surprisingly, they still became fast friends and remained so even after his confession. In fact, Tharin became his confidant, the only one who knew everything from his past. The Commander convinced himself that was enough.

Now, as he sat inside the well-lit tavern watching the young man and the attractive redhead laugh so gaily together, a doubt emerged in the corner of his mind. It began to prod him, asking if he’d made the right decision that day, questioning whether he’d let a chance go to waste.

Months after the encounter Cullen still remembered Tharin’s words precisely. He tried to analyze them again.

_Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall? No one special caught your interest?_

Vague. Just because Cullen tried to deduce their meaning again did not mean that the veil of plausible innuendos gave way to unobstructed clarity.

The Commander suddenly felt abysmally insignificant and redirected his gaze to the stein for a measure of comfort. He could see the scarred face looking back at him in the murky brew and grimaced. _Aren’t I a catch_ , he thought darkly.

As Cullen’s thoughts turned negative, Tharin sauntered back looking especially amused. “I hope you like your mystery meat with a side of mystery greens. Flissa wouldn’t tell me what was in stock today.” The young man flashed an impish smirk. His gleaming eyes were filled with an unadulterated glee Cullen could never hope to emulate. Maker, he was perfect.

Tharin’s demeanor softened as he settled in his chair. He shot the Commander a bashful look and quickly added, “By the way… You look really nice.” Red spots on his cheeks grew larger. “Not that you don’t normally, you do, but… it’s good to see you out of the armor.”

Cullen’s heart was in his throat, pulsing rapidly. The pang of envy and self-pity gave way to a surge of hopeful yearning. The Commander smiled lightly and managed a couple words, “You look really good too.”

With that last remark, the two men sat in silence and stared at their drinks. It was only when Flissa came over with hot plates of unidentified food-like objects that the pregnant silence was broken.

***

After an hour or so of amicable banter as they shared surprisingly flavorful, succulent skewers of beef and spring vegetables and drank stein after stein, the two men were finally at ease. Their straight warrior postures were all but forgotten as they reclined in their chairs. Unexpectedly, it was Cullen who asked Tharin a personal question.

“So, I thought you were noble-born. I mean, you _are_ a Trevelyan. How is it that you are not used to giving orders or playing the Grand Game?”

 _Game on, Commander_ , Tharin thought. “Well, first off, I think you’ve come to have a rather high expectation because of Josephine. She is just too amazing a diplomat. I don’t doubt that if she really wanted, she could even convince Orlesian aristocrats to play nice by attending the court in their knickers. Or maybe just stark naked. You know, no hidden weapons, no vials of poison, and no assassination attempts. Though I suppose they would have enough orifices and crevices to hide some of those things.”

Cullen choked on a mouthful of ale and proceeded to snigger. Tharin matched the reaction with his own giggle as he pictured supercilious nobles of Val Royeaux parading in their birthday suits, the hilts of daggers, hopefully sheathed, sticking out of their private areas.

“But what I really should tell you is that I’m a noble in name only. In truth, my family is… was… just a group of small-time traders from Ostwick. My father was of a lowly cadet branch that split off at least a couple generations ago. Plus, you know my mum was an elf. Maybe Leliana didn’t mention, but… Mum was actually a house slave in Tevinter, and Dad bought her freedom.”

It was all so jovial only a moment ago and now Cullen looked solemn. He quietly sipped his beer, which Tharin interpreted as disinterest. “Forgive me. It’s not really an appropriate story to tell here, is it? I should stick to more cheerful ones.”

Cullen looked as if he stepped on hot coal. “What? Maker’s breath! No, you misunderstand. I do want to hear about your family. I was simply thinking how foolish I was in assuming you would be… more aristocratic.”

“Ah, so you were waiting for my evil side to emerge, correct? Waiting to find out whether I’d chased village tots from my enormous estate? Maybe whipped a peasant on a whim? A cranky, conniving duke who lives for the Grand Game?” Tharin cackled wickedly and rubbed his hands together, causing another fit of breathless laughter in the other man.

“Sweet Maker, that is too much,” Cullen barely managed to respond coherently in between amused bellows. Tharin’s heart soared as he watched the Commander roar.

It took another minute and a few calming sips of ale before Tharin could continue. “It’s interesting to think how different my parents were from the extended Trevelyan clan. Dad never really cared about the honor of the family. He found love and he made enough money to make a comfortable life for us. That was it. He really had no delusions of grandeur that seems to come with the Trevelyan blood. And my mum… I might be idealizing her, but she was the sweetest, kindest lady I knew as a child. She never once preached hatred toward Tevinter or some of our… less open-minded neighbors.”

Tharin paused, feeling pensive. “I often wonder about how completely different my life would have been if they didn’t die when they did… Maybe I would have been a Free Marcher merchant, or a scholar in Orlais. Maybe a seaman. I don’t know. But a former templar with a shimmering hand who works for the Inquisition? Definitely not… Although if it came to that, I wouldn’t have met you.”

From his previous experiences, Tharin knew the Commander was an easy target to tease. The young man watched as Cullen’s scarred lips curved up, half awkward and half pleased.

But Cullen soon looked back with those amber eyes, so utterly serious. “I apologize if this is too forward, but…”

“Right. My parents.” Tharin smiled to let the other man know his curiosity was welcome.

“My dad had a stint at a trading post in Qarinus. It was probably a demotion, since Qarinus isn’t even an important port city and Tevinter doesn’t do much trade with the outsiders anyhow. One day, he was invited to a formal dinner hosted by a publican, and that’s where he met my mum. She served him a goblet of wine and smiled, and he was smitten. He courted her secretly for months until the publican figured it out and demanded he break off the relationship.

“He, of course, didn’t. He sold everything he owned, paid the man everything, brought Mum back to Ostwick, and wed her at the docks. They had literally nothing at the beginning, but they worked hard. By the time I was born, Dad was operating a small import and export business, Mum was working as a milliner, and they had a little house to their names. They really had a formidable partnership.”

Tharin wanted to test the waters. He put on the sweetest smile he could conjure up and intoned innocently, “Kind of like us, don’t you think?”

Cullen looked away immediately, but there was no hiding the blush. The young man felt triumphant. It was good. The high would get him through the painful part.

“Mum never recovered from her years in Tevinter. I remember her being bedridden a lot, though as a child I didn’t know better and was just glad to spend entire days talking, reading, or singing together. She passed when I was ten and my father was never the same. He sold off the business, drowned his sorrows at every tavern in the city, and then one day he was gone too. I wasn’t even twelve, yet and I was orphaned.

“I only had distant relatives and none of them wanted to take me in, so I was sent to the Chantry to train as a templar. My distant uncle, Bann Trevelyan, offered to put my name down in the family registry as his youngest, but it didn’t matter in the end. The Bann’s wife would not let me set foot in their estate. She said it was the duty for every Trevelyan to serve the Chantry, but I think most of the clan just plain didn’t like me. I remember one of my great aunts calling me a mangy knife-ear mutt at my dad’s funeral.”

Tharin hurried through the rest and then gulped down the ale. Sympathy from the Commander was the last thing he wanted. This was nothing compared to what Cullen had gone through. It was just a garden-variety sad childhood story.

The young man endeavored to avoid the other man’s gaze as he finished. “Until then, my childhood was happy. My parents were good people. I did miss them a lot, especially when the templar trainers yelled at me for being too slow. To me, a chantry was never a home.”

The Herald tried to beam but managed only a crooked grimace. “I really was a bad initiate. They made me retake most of the subjects before I was allowed to go on the vigil.” He exhaled to signal that he was done, that it was Cullen’s turn to say something. Anything.

Regrettably for Tharin, another spell of wordlessness had struck Cullen. The Commander’s eyes were directed at his own stein and the young man felt too uncomfortable to let the silence linger.

“I think that’s part of the reason why I love travel diaries. The voyagers venture forth to uncharted territories, but they always come home to their loving families. It makes me believe I could have that again one day. It’s childish, I know.”

Only then did Cullen look up. He shook his head and replied purposefully, “No, it’s not. All of us think back to happier times and wish we could go back. I certainly want to believe I could be part of a loving family again, someday.”

The Commander fixed his piercing eyes on Tharin and spoke tenderly, “You aren’t alone in this.”

***

Another hour passed. Tharin and Cullen talked about everything, from their favorite food (venison pasty for Tharin, shortbread biscuits for Cullen) to the training of the recruits (“Still an adjustment for some, my lord”).

Now the topic of the conversation turned to the Fallow Mire and the enemies the Herald of Andraste vanquished. Tharin was talking about the Hand of Korth, the Avvar leader who held Inquisition soldiers captive. He gesticulated wildly to show the size of the war hammer the Hand wielded and his errant Anchor hand knocked a plate off the table.

The steel plate landed on the floor with a loud clang and a dozen wooden skewers flew everywhere. Cullen and Tharin both jumped from their seats and knelt to pick up the remnants of their supper. The young man turned scarlet and stammered, “Forgive me, that was ungainly of me.”

Cullen smiled magnanimously and intoned, “Pay no mind. It happens.”

As they hurriedly caught the pieces rolling around on the floor and moved them back to the tabletop, the Herald could feel all the eyes in the tavern focused on him. He peeked and saw the soldiers staring bemusedly.

Vivienne, Varric, and Sera were huddled in the far corner, obviously in the middle of gossiping. Though it was quite unusual to find the enchanter among the lowly recruits and scouts, let alone the dwarf who authored penny dreadfuls and the ill-behaved elf.

The prospect of sharing intimate details and hidden secrets of the Inner Circle must have proved to be too irresistible of a bait for her. Why would she be here in this tavern, the rusticity of which was positively Fereldan, otherwise? Indeed, Vivienne’s arms were tightly crossed and her shoulders tense, despite her animated expression.

In the overbearing silence Varric and Vivienne’s voices came off as stage whispers. They quickly averted their eyes when Tharin scowled. Meanwhile, Sera was totally oblivious, soused, and gleeful. She would have been singing and dancing lewdly if not for Vivienne continuously shushing her.

Tharin snorted mirthfully, “Oh dear, I do believe we’ve overstayed our welcome in this establishment. Shall we bid our farewell for the night then?”

Cullen looked on uneasily, realizing what had transpired around them. He sheepishly said, “I’ve taken too much of your time anyway. My apologies.”

“Not at all. You have no idea how much I enjoyed this. You made my day, Cullen. Thank you.”

The floor was as clean as it was going to get. Tharin stood up and carefully gathered all the used steins, plates, and silverware for Flissa. In a manner diametrically opposed to when he knocked the steel plate off the table, his hands moved about gracefully and quickly, denying Cullen any part of the chore.

The young man then put on the gray fleece that had been resting on his chair, tucked away the papers in his satchel, and motioned the other man to follow him.

The chatter in the tavern turned more raucous as the door closed behind them. Tharin looked back, amused by an image of Varric and Vivienne furiously debating the seeming closeness of the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Cullen merely stared at the ground.

The young man took a deep breath and looked to the man standing next to him. “So, to our cabin then, Commander?”

To their cabin. He wanted to remind Cullen that it was their home, a place they shared together. The Commander responded with a timid nod.

As they walked the deserted path, Tharin kept going over different ways to reveal to Cullen his feelings without scaring the man off. He hadn’t dared to hope before, but… there were some encouraging signs, and he could be persistent if he wanted. And he wanted this badly.

Nonetheless, the window of opportunity was rapidly closing. Sure, they were headed to the same place, but he knew that as soon as the front door closed behind them the Commander would become too skittish.

There were only a few paces left. Tharin’s body took over when his brain failed. His legs abruptly stopped moving and his knees buckled. He seated himself on the icy steps in the front yard.

“Come, join me.”

The Commander stared at Tharin quizzically, but nevertheless obeyed. The young man blurted out an excuse, “I just want some night air before we go in.” Cullen’s face relaxed and he nodded.

Yet even before the other man was completely seated, he found himself lobbing a question senselessly, “Has Leliana told you my full first name?”

It had obviously taken the Commander by surprise, but the answer came straightaway. “I don’t believe so.”

“It’s Haretharin. I’ve no middle name. I know, if my mum and dad didn’t want everyone to know I had elven blood… I think more than nine out of ten people I come across cannot properly pronounce it.”

“Ha-RE-tharin,” Cullen ventured cautiously.

It was good for a first try. “Well done. I knew you’d get it right.”

“Ha-RE-tharin… Does it mean something?”

“Mum came up with it. After she died, Dad told me it means ‘he who protects us all.’ I always thought my parents were being overly ambitious, but maybe they could see the future.” The young man looked up at the night sky and sighed. “I pray they were right.”

He could see Cullen’s warm eyes gleam in the corner of his vision but did not respond. Instead, he sat silently, stared at the heavens and dreamily connected the stars in his mind, all the while gathering up enough courage to take the leap.

Haltingly, Tharin reached out. His right hand shook quite noticeably, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to wet his parched throat. The anticipation was a killer.

Before long, his callused fingers were on top of Cullen’s. When the Commander did not pull away, Tharin tried to entwine their fingers. Cullen was hesitant at first, but soon accepted the hand. Their fingers gripped each other tightly. The Commander’s thumb gently stroked Tharin’s index finger, welcoming him.

“Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Is this… all right?”

“Yes.”

Their hearts were pulsing in synchronicity through the locked hands. Tharin could not stop the corners of his mouth inching upward as colorful spots crowded his vision, a firework in his brain.

It was a moment that required no spoken words. Tharin was content to sit in silence, concentrating on the warmth of Cullen’s hand. The Commander’s hand was remarkably soft. His supple skin neatly juxtaposed the young man’s rough hand. Was it because he had gloves on at all times? Was it possible this man actually knew how to take a proper care of himself? Whatever the reason, the young man was glad of it.

The intense heat radiating from Cullen drew Tharin in closer until he nuzzled, his heart still pounding rapidly, but otherwise relaxed.

But he could tell Cullen was panicking. The Commander’s body was tense, the breaths shallow and rapid. Tharin was suddenly overcome with an urge to pounce and pepper the man with kisses. He instead buried his face in the hollow above Cullen’s clavicle. His pointed nose brushed against the neck fuzz and the comforting scent flooded his nostrils.

Cullen swallowed roughly, and Tharin chuckled and sighed. He felt guilty for having stoked the anxious reaction but was nonetheless unwilling to let go of the solid sense of security that Cullen’s heft offered. He stayed nestled on the sturdy shoulder and listened to the steady thrumming emanating from inside.

The Commander made a small noise that did not quite develop into an identifiable word. He then attempted to clear the pipe quietly, only to break into coughs. It was most unfair that the man could be so adorable even when flustered. Especially when flustered, to be more precise.

After a while, Cullen cleared his throat again, successfully this time, and proceeded to speak casually as if this was his plan all long. “I picked up an interesting Elvish phrase from that book… _The Dialectics_ , don’t know if you remember…”

Tharin shifted and looked up at the Commander. “Oh yes? Do tell.”

“‘ma’sa’lath, ar tel’juha’lam’shiran na.”

“Wait, I know _‘ma_ is my… My… something, and _ar_ is I, I think.” Tharin regretted having never asked his mother to teach him Elvish. “I give. What does the rest mean?”

A thin smile hung on Cullen’s scarred lips. “…I will tell you later, if you are good.”

“I don’t suppose _I will tell you later_ is what it means, right?” Cullen merely shook his head, refusing to betray any more clues. Tharin lurched away and pouted in mock anger. “You know you’re being incredibly unfair, right? The only person I knew who spoke Elvish was my mum and I haven’t been able to speak to her for over ten years.”

Cullen’s soft eyes sparkled with mischief. It was an extremely rare occurrence for the Commander and those eyes enthralled Tharin.

The light banter must have done the trick. The man looked much more at ease, almost enjoying the moment.

Cullen turned, rested his other hand in the young man’s cropped mane, and looked intently. He then lightly kissed him on the temple and whispered directly into his right ear, “It’s cold. We should get inside.” The vibrations of Cullen’s low voice sent shivers down Tharin’s back.

The Commander stood up and extended a hand, his face filled with cheer so relentless that Tharin could almost see the seasoned officer’s callow days staring back. The young man felt the corners of his lips upturn as he grabbed Cullen’s hand, suddenly finding himself being pulled up effortlessly by a burly arm.

When they finally arrived at the front door, Tharin dawdled. He felt the lust for the golden man course through his body. He let go of the Commander’s hand and reached out, fastening his hands around the waist. Powerful muscles contracted underneath.

The young man licked his dry lips and asked hesitantly, “Cullen… Do you want to…?”

The atmosphere changed instantly and not for good. The murky dread came back on Cullen’s face and he sighed mournfully. “I… I don’t think we should.”

Another rejection.

It occurred to Tharin that he now had nothing to lose by laying everything out in the open. And so, he did. He lifted his head defiantly and stared into Cullen’s poignant amber eyes. He released his words softly but made sure they carried with them his resolve.

“You must know that I like you, more than I should, far more than what is allowed… But you’ve made yourself clear that you don’t like me. So, tell me again how foolish I am being. Please. I want to stop hoping.”

The words set Cullen’s eyes ablaze.

“No.”

Tharin’s comeback to this unexpected answer was half said when he found himself pinned to the wooden door by a pair of unbelievably strong arms. He saw Cullen’s face closing in, so completely, devastatingly, hopelessly earnest. He let his eyes close gently. In the bosom of total darkness, Tharin finally felt Cullen’s lips pressing against his.

The Commander kissed like he had never kissed before. It wasn’t that he was bad at it, but that he was singularly focused on it, so obvious in his hunger. He tasted like cheap beer and elation, and Tharin’s heart tightened at the mundanity. It had taken them so long to get here, yet it felt like he had always known Cullen’s lips, like he could not imagine going without it even for a minute.

The kiss was better than what Tharin had envisioned during those lonely nights, those freezing mornings spent with Cullen, and those afternoons when they debated in the war room.

It was everything and much, much more.

Too soon after, Cullen was gone. Already missing the man, Tharin opened his eyes.

He saw a scarred face contorted with surprise and worry. The intensity had been replaced by tentativeness and the amber eyes wavered. The man stuttered, “I–I didn’t mean to upset you…”

When Tharin wiped his cheeks, he realized belatedly that a couple drops of tears had escaped through his eyelids. Startled, he stared at the wetness on his hands.

Cullen’s face sank. “This was… I am sorry. I should’ve asked first…” The arms dropped and dangled on his sides uselessly.

The young man knew he had given a wrong impression, so he linked their hands and nudged his nose against the incarnadined cheek. Now that they passed their first hurdle, he was no longer willing to let the fear dictate their interactions. He crinkled his eyes and cooed encouragingly, “No, Cullen, it was perfect. You are perfect.”

Cullen broke out in a relieved smile. “So…”

Tharin buried his right hand among the Commander’s blond locks and pulled the man toward him gently. He whispered, “I’d like more of it now.” A gratified chuckle followed, and his wish was granted.

Their second kiss was even more violent. Their mouths fused and Tharin leaned into it. Cullen’s lips opened readily as Tharin’s tongue invaded, and they came together like a hot wax on an envelope, melting and blending.

Anxieties dissolved into lust as their bodies entwined. Tharin felt Cullen’s erection rub against his own. He wondered what the Commander would look like without clothes and then imagined himself on the knees, pleasuring the man every way he knew. His mouth would fit snugly around the distended cock, sliding until his nose was buried in a dense tuft of curly dark blond fur. He would finally be free to savor the musk that had tantalized him for so long. That scent of elderflower and oakmoss.

Tharin would watch the man’s rugged face crinkle in an awesome pleasure. He would hear the man call out his name like a prayer. And Cullen would explode inside his mouth, marking the young man as his.

By the time their mouths parted, both men were panting. Their foreheads bumped as they took a break. Tharin cupped the Commander’s head and stroked the sideburns. Without looking he could tell the other man had on an appreciative smile.

“Cullen.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Say my name.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

“…Tharin.”

“Cullen.”

It was like they were making an introduction for the first time. Tharin, Cullen. Like newly acquainted thespian partners trying to commit each other’s face to memory, the two men locked eyes and repeated each other’s names.

A gust of night air kicked up the feathery top layer of snow to form a veil that spirited the men away. They were in their own world, in their own miniature snow globe. The Breach, wars, the meaningless carnage and destruction, templars, the Fade, demons, the Game, all those troubles receded from the young man’s consciousness as the snow glinted. Feeling liberated, he burst out laughing, drawing a broader smile from Cullen.

The pristine joy, however, quickly became subdued and the enigmatic intensity was back in Cullen’s eyes. “I have another Elvish phrase for you.”

The young man sighed, feigning annoyance. “More Elvish? All right, Commander. What do you have for me?”

“Ara vhen’an.” The golden irises seemed to glow even brighter. Cullen swallowed hard as if to put a new emphasis. “It’s w–what I wanted to say… That I… love you.”

Tharin froze. He already knew what it meant: his mother would hum those very words every night before his eyes grew heavy and the slumber approached. _Ara vhen’an, Haretharin_.

Suddenly, Cassandra’s concerned voice rang in the young man’s head.

_It is good to know Cullen’s found someone to confide in. He needs a person who understands him, who can accept him and his past._

Would he be good for Cullen? Would he be enough? The first time he’d been given a chance like this, he could not even protect the life of his love, let alone make him happy. He could not even show Kyre the world beyond the Circle. And now he was standing in front of a man, whose heart was pure and who just declared his love for him, filled only with carnal desire.

It sickened him.

The thoughts instantly extinguished the lust. It was Tharin’s turn to run. “You can’t mean that, Cullen. You couldn’t possibly know. We haven’t even courted, let alone…”

The young man was terrified. Of hurting Cullen, of disappointing him, of failing to make him happy, of becoming another burden in a life filled with unmitigated agonies. He had been blithely oblivious of – or at the least had been ignoring – the possibility that he may not be what Cullen needed.

Tharin gently, but firmly, pushed the other man away and turned to unlock the front door. “Forgive me. You are right. We probably shouldn’t do this. And I, um… I am a little tired from the trip…”

He heard a little sound of surprise that was followed by a torrent of strained words only after an interminable moment of absolute quiet.

“…I understand, my lord. I know now that I’ve overstepped my bounds… I–I hope you can forgive my insolence. I will go back to sleeping in my tent. If you will allow, I will come gather my things and move out tomorrow.”

The beaten down tone rattled Tharin. He had once again given a wrong impression and hurt the man inadvertently. Sod his crippling anxieties, he had to undo the damage. He whipped around to find the Commander’s head turned away, his expression that of the utterly defeated.

“Cullen, wait. Please.” The Herald reached out to grab the Commander’s wrist before he could fade into the night. The man jolted at the contact.

The touch grounded Tharin. The young man felt thin, rapid thumps pulsate through Cullen’s bare skin.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I like you a lot. I just… thought it would not be fair to you, because I don’t think I can fully reciprocate your feelings right away. You deserve someone who loves you as much as you love him. In fact… I know I’m not good enough for you.”

Cullen looked deep in thought for a long while and started to speak carefully. “…I don’t quite follow. To me, you are flawless. If anything, I’ve been afraid that I… am not good enough for you. I am older than you by nine years and… my past will haunt me until the day I die. There are going to be many difficult days ahead because of my past and I will end up weighing you down. So, if you are willing, I would be grateful to have whatever you can give.”

Tharin could tell that this was Cullen at his most vulnerable and most honest. All the tensions in his muscles gave out at once. He had to lean against the door to not wobble. His heart thudded loudly from the relief and the pain.

Not daring to look directly into the solemn eyes, Tharin instead focused his gaze on a little lint stuck on Cullen’s tunic as he started with his own confession. “You are worth so much more than you judge yourself for. I wish you could see that…”

The young man quickly wiped his eyes again, smudging the new wetness there. “Maker… I always thought you weren’t interested in men, let alone me, so I daren’t hope. And then we kissed, and my desire for you just took over… It was the only thing I could attend to. I don’t want that. I mean, I do. I just don’t want you to think that what I feel for you is just lust, something that will be gone after one night. It’s much more than that.”

An absolute hush fell over Cullen. Tharin felt the panic rising but kept going without checking the man’s reaction.

“What I want is… to be with you. I want you to know that you are important to me, more than anyone else. I can’t lie and tell you that what I feel for you is… what you told me. But nothing would please me more than to be by your side, to keep you safe and happy. So…”

Tharin sighed as he said, “as trite as this will sound, I would like for us to wait until you are comfortable. With us, with… everything. When you’re fine with everything – and only if you truly are – I would like to show you that I am serious about this, about us.”

Finished with his declaration, Tharin looked up to find a pair of soft golden eyes filled with amazement. Cullen seemed to be searching for adequate words, only to give up and exclaim in a muted voice, “Maker’s breath…”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes… Yes, of course, my lor–”

Tharin cupped the Commander’s face before the man could finish. “No. From now on, you are to call me by my name when we are alone. Not _my lord_ , _Herald_ , or _your worship_. Just my name.”

“Oh, um… Tharin…”

The young man let go, but not before he leaned forward to lightly kiss Cullen’s stubbled cheek. “That’s better.”

The Commander blinked incredulously.

“I’m yours, Cullen, if you will have me.”

“Yes.” The man stopped before cautiously adding, “Tharin.”

It was entirely impossible to contain himself. Tharin forcefully pulled the man into his arms and locked lips again. This time, however, the resultant kiss was tender and subdued. The lust still smoldered below, but it was dwarfed by the warmth of budding affection. He knew the new sprout was fragile and he was going to do his utmost to protect it.

His effort notwithstanding, Tharin felt himself harden again and broke from the kiss. Lust was a persistent companion.

Cullen blushed at the change and gave a playful pat on the back. After a moment of bashfulness followed by reluctance he declared, “I should get going.”

“Where to?”

“I accept your suggestion that we should wait. But if that were to happen, we cannot be in the same room by ourselves. Otherwise… I cannot promise I will leave you alone, and I can tell from your state that neither could you. So, I will have to stay in my tent for now.”

“But it’s freezing out! I don’t want you to catch your death just because I–”

Cullen shushed the young man and planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Sweet dreams. I will see you in the morning.” And then the man was off.

“Cullen!” Tharin called out before having thought through what he wanted to say. The Commander whirled around and shot him a curious look.

“Ah… Keep warm. Please.” He felt rather lame as his voice cracked.

Cullen laughed emphatically and held up his hand. “I will. Don’t fret.”

Tharin watched as the Commander sauntered off with buoyant steps. He hugged himself and chuckled as the tall figure turned and disappeared behind the gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Project Elvhen (https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061) for the Elvish phrases!
> 
> Next up, seeing things from Cullen's POV.
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	7. The Second View: Through His Blameless Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already, please make sure to check out the previous chapter - The First View: From His Heart! Thank you!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING! Mild sexual content.

Cullen could not look up when they exited the tavern. It felt like all the eyes in Thedas were focused on them, gossiping and judging. And that’s when he heard Tharin speak.

“So, to our cabin then, Commander?”

His overwhelming embarrassment was tempered by unanticipated excitement. This was the first night they were walking home together. The first night they would share the same room. The first night he could fall asleep listening to the young man’s breathing…

Tharin strolled leisurely and forced Cullen to keep pace by slowing down. Despite the unhurried steps, their shoulders kept bumping. The Commander was almost sure the Herald was doing it on purpose, but he had neither the nerve nor the self-confidence to try something bold. He kept trying to steal glances at Tharin to see if his intuition was correct.

The young man’s face betrayed no overt emotion. The familiar tight sensation that portended a looming anxiety made him unable to stop checking. Unfortunately, the revelation never came. Tharin’s intent remained shrouded in mystery.

Cullen could see the door to the cabin getting nearer. He gulped the freezing air and was about to suggest they talk about his book when he was interrupted by the sound of a heavy object hitting the ground.

It was Tharin’s satchel. Next, the young man was also on the ground, perched on the icy steps.

“Come, join me.” The young man added less convincingly, “I just want some night air before we go in.”

Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, Cullen was glad. He would have been too nervous once they were inside, and this way he could prolong the close interaction. For just a few minutes, Tharin was his and his alone. He sat down without another word.

As soon as his seat was on the snow, he heard Tharin speak an octave higher than his usual voice. The query was markedly abrupt. “Has Leliana told you my full first name?”

Cullen answered honestly, “I don’t believe so.”

“It’s Haretharin. I’ve no middle name. I know, if my mum and dad didn’t want everyone to know I had elven blood… I think more than nine out of ten people I come across cannot properly pronounce it.”

The Commander tried to emulate to his best ability. “Ha-RE-tharin.”

He felt vindicated when this attempt was met with a thin grin and a compliment.

“Well done. I knew you’d get it right.”

“Ha-RE-tharin… Does it mean something?”

“Mum came up with it. After she died, Dad told me it means ‘he who protects us all.’ I always thought my parents were being overly ambitious, but maybe they could see the future.” The young man’s gaze turned skyward. The sigh that followed made Cullen feel melancholic. “I pray they were right.”

Cullen wanted to say his parents were right, but it was apparent Tharin was not looking for reassurance. He sat silently next to the young man, his eyes tracing the strong profile, and thought of ways to make the Herald feel less burdened, less weighed down by the impossible task he had a hand in forcing.

It was then he noticed Tharin’s right hand inching closer. There was an obvious tremor in the movement. The Commander felt his throat tighten and looked away. He waited for the inevitable contact that he had been longing for.

The young man’s fingers found his hand and Cullen felt tiny bubbles crashing and pricking the insides of his body. When he regained the sensation in his limbs, he promptly intertwined the fingers. He dreamily stroked a knuckle on the other man’s index finger, committing to memory the bumps and grooves.

“Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Is this… all right?”

Yes, yes, yes. This was what he’d wanted all along. From the thousand words that rapidly passed through his mind, he could only choose to say “Yes.”

Tharin was unexpectedly rough-skinned, thick calluses covering much of the hand. It was true, he had never seen the young man with anything other than basic accoutrements necessary for self-defense. Sometimes Tharin would even forgo the helmet, prompting a long lecture from Cassandra about being combat-ready. Thus, fur-lined gloves, which shielded Cullen’s hands from cold mountain winds, were definitely not part of the Herald’s wardrobe.

Dry and cracked skin was no joke, especially when it made sword grips painful. Perhaps he could gift a pair of gloves for the young man. He made a mental note to ask Leliana for the man’s birthday. He could make it a surprise.

The stray thoughts in Cullen’s head were reduced to a shapeless, dull humming when he felt Tharin lean on his shoulder. The young man’s pointed nose brushed against the side of his neck, the breath was so hot on his cold skin, and his muscles tensed unwittingly.

The Commander was starting to dread the continuing absence of dialogue. Spoken words were not his strong suit, but they were a better alternative to prolonged silence. He did not want Tharin to find out that he was in fact inexperienced and boring. When he heard a little chortle coming from the young man, he knew he had to do something.

Cullen tried to speak but found his throat dry and blocked. He attempted to clear the passage as inconspicuously as possible, but something got caught and it led to hacking coughs. He did his best not to shake too much, lest he accidentally hurt the young man.

Once his uncooperative respiratory organs calmed, he proceeded to speak nonchalantly as if his nerves were not on the edge of a precipice, “I picked up an interesting Elvish phrase from that book… _The Dialectics_ , don’t know if you remember…”

“Oh yes? Do tell.”

The Commander forced his way through the frayed nerves and repeated the phrase that he must have practiced a dozen times, “‘ma’sa’lath, ar tel’juha’lam’shiran na.”

“Wait, I know _‘ma_ is my… My… something, and _ar_ is I, I think.” The young man sighed exasperatedly. “I give. What does the rest mean?”

Cullen felt his lips curl upward as he thought himself brilliant for this lark. It was his way to tell his truth without revealing it outright. “…I will tell you later, if you are good.”

“I don’t suppose _I will tell you later_ is what it means, right?” Cullen shook his head. It had never been his plan to let the young man in on his true intent so easily. He wanted to savor this sweet moment little longer, until the time when he would have to confess and more than likely suffer a rejection. That wouldn’t come until later. _Later_.

Tharin jerked away from his shoulder and he felt the absence acutely. “You know you’re being incredibly unfair, right? The only person I knew who spoke Elvish was my mum and I haven’t been able to speak to her for over ten years.”

Cullen could have broken out in the broadest smile of his life but tried his hardest to suppress it. Coming across as too cheeky was the last thing he wanted, especially when it was in response to Tharin’s reaction. At least the man did not appear to be offended or hurt.

The Commander noticed that his heart was no longer drumming against his chest. He was still anxious, but thank the Maker, it was not debilitating. Hanging on to the newfound sliver of fortitude, he decided it was his turn to make the next move. He tousled the young man’s hair and kissed his temple. He then whispered words he hoped the other man would take as an invitation, “It’s cold. We should get inside.”

Tharin’s thick mane tickled his nose. Cullen smelled soap and the faintest hint of the young man’s earthy musk. He must have taken a bath before meeting him at the tavern. Imagining the young man undressed, the Commander found himself becoming aroused.

He wanted Tharin, here and now.

Cullen sprang to his feet and impatiently pulled the other man up, feeling a bit immature and ridiculous. Thankfully, Tharin grinned good-naturedly at the eagerness.

When they reached the entrance to their home, Cullen saw Tharin hesitate. When he looked into the young man’s eyes, he saw unadulterated lust. Lust for this broken man. The intensity of it matched his own, but it still unsettled him, because it was a sight he was never acquainted with and had never envisaged aimed at himself.

Within the blink of an eye, Tharin was wrapped around him, asking in that impossibly low, seductive tone, “Cullen… Do you want to…?”

The Commander could not stay the hands of anxiety as much as he could not rip away from his own shadow. It followed him wherever he went and inevitably corroded away any paltry amount of self-confidence he fought hard to attain.

This, what he was about to do with Tharin, was real and it was happening right in front of his eyes. It was too much. Cullen wanted it, yet he wasn’t sure if he could. Did he have it in him to pleasure Tharin the way he wanted, no, deserved to be pleasured? He choked a feeble response, “I… I don’t think we should.”

Cullen could not believe the look of hurt that instantaneously supplanted lust in the young man’s face. The persistent eye contact was beginning to unnerve him. He thought he saw disappointment and anger rise in the icy eyes, just for the briefest moment.

Tharin crooned softly, but resolutely, “You must know that I like you, more than I should, far more than what is allowed… But you’ve made yourself clear that you don’t like me. So, tell me again how foolish I am being. Please. I want to stop hoping.”

The blue eyes, now emptied of reproach and replaced instead with profound earnestness, hypnotized the Commander and fear finally loosened its viselike grip on him. He uttered a single word, as if he had been saving it for this moment.

“No.”

Without waiting for the young man to string together a coherent response, Cullen shoved him against the wooden door. He saw a glimmer of anticipation in Tharin’s eyes before they were shut. When he was ready, he closed the remaining space and firmly pressed their lips together.

Lost in a timeless moment, the Commander did not care who watched, whether they judged, or if he was good enough. It only mattered that he could feel the softness, the wetness, the luscious heat that he did not even realize he hungered for. This was his first real kiss and Tharin made it perfect.

Cullen tasted thick saliva and a bitter note of fine ale. It was not what he expected, but he still felt himself being consumed by the kiss. It required fuel and his whole body was going up in flame.

He let himself burn, burn ever so ferociously, entranced by this new sensation that already seemed so integral a part of his humanity. His mind shouted in joy and his heart matched with beats, _Tharin, Tharin, Tharin_ …

Yet the moment passed too soon. When the lips parted reluctantly and Cullen opened his eyes, he saw on Tharin’s rosy cheeks two thin lines of moisture.

Tears.

His heart sank and he felt the freezing mountain wind wick away the nervous sweat. He could not believe how absolute bliss could turn so quickly into absolute helplessness. He dropped his arms and spluttered, “This was… I am sorry. I should’ve asked first…”

But instead of retreating, the young man stepped forward, grabbing Cullen’s hands. The patrician nose was pushing against his cheek, as its owner murmured in an encouraging tone, “Cullen, it was perfect. You are perfect.”

How strange, he did not feel perfect. Indeed, he felt like the most imperfect being in this plane of existence. But he was glad he was wanted. “So…”

Tharin smiled his bright smile and pulled him closer. “I’d like more of it now.” And who was he to deny such request?

The wait was worth it. That deep-seated feeling of resignation that was accumulated over two decades from crushes unrequited, spurned, or abandoned, dissolved into a throbbing mass of exultation and euphoria. Cravings for lyrium, the little aches and pains from past battles that never fully healed, and the bottomless guilt that repeatedly harked him back to Ferelden and Kirkwall all fleeted away. And Cullen wanted them to never return. He sincerely prayed that this passion would make him anew, into the version of himself he always wanted to be but could not.

He felt a desperate hunger take over the second time their lips crashed. Any traces of leftover anxiety, that were terribly sticky and clingy, were gradually being scrubbed away by the fresh lust. Cullen found it difficult to imagine what was to follow, but he was aware of the urgency in his arousal. He wanted to make Tharin feel good, to let him know he – not the Herald of Andraste – was the only person that mattered. Even if this was to be a short affair, Cullen would always remember that for one night the most stunning, the most kindhearted man was his.

Once again, they parted and the kiss lapsed, but this time Cullen felt more sated. More importantly, he checked Tharin’s eyes and found them dry. He exhaled discreetly, relieved of the doubt.

The young man was so close. Their foreheads were kissing, and the now-familiar rough hands were holding his head. He felt comforted, protected. Maybe even… loved, just the tiniest bit.

One by one Cullen let go of the restraints he had put on himself. The fear of rejection, the anxiety of inadequacy, and the specter of public humiliation slinked off, revealing the steel gate of his citadel.

“Cullen.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Say my name.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

“…Tharin.”

Refusing to call the young man by his given name was the last seal that kept his feelings in check. Now that it was broken and his donjon was breached, there was nothing left to fear.

He watched Tharin’s serious face break into a muted grin and then into a wholehearted laughter. Its force shook the young man and his own body resonated along. Snowflakes whirling through the wind reflected the moonlight and coruscated around the Herald. It indeed made him look transcendent, almost forcing the Commander to his knees and worship.

Cullen wanted to confess now. He needed to let his truth out. It was a similar impulse to the one he felt on the night when he confessed his injuries and crimes, but this time the compulsion was a happy one. If the former was about atoning for the past, this was about throwing open the door and welcoming the future. He thought he was ready.

“I have another Elvish phrase for you.”

Tharin exhaled, but his face was glowing. “More Elvish? All right, Commander. What do you have for me?”

This was it. “Ara vhen’an.” The truth. “It’s w–what I wanted to say… That I… love you.” He would have liked to sound a bit more confident.

And then things took an immediate turn.

Before Cullen’s eyes Tharin’s face transformed, from light to dark.

It was now the young man who looked and sounded flustered. “You can’t mean that, Cullen. You couldn’t possibly know. We haven’t even courted, let alone…” The arms were pushing away before the choppy sentence was complete. It was like the ground had given away and Cullen was tumbling. His heart broke as he silently observed Tharin put up a wall.

And from behind the wall echoed a voice so strained, so dry, “Forgive me. You are right. We probably shouldn’t. And I, um… I am a little tired from the trip…”

Cullen had critically miscalculated. He realized too late that he underestimated the weight the word _love_ carried for the young man. Clearly, he only wanted a night of passion. Maybe to mollify the pain of the lost love, not a lifetime of being chained to a damaged man.

Cullen hoped for more in a fit of recklessness and revealed everything with all that talk of love. What an idiotic thing he had done. Better to leave Tharin be for now. He would wait for the young man to come to him, if he ever decided to again. If he ever decided to forgive the thoughtlessness.

Yet Cullen could not quiet his mind altogether. It churned out questions that made him feel uneasy and pointlessly jealous.

Was Tharin thinking of his first love right now? Was the memory of Kyr the only thing in his mind?

Was there any part of him that still wanted Cullen?

The Commander hoped fervently that he wouldn’t sound so crushed as he endeavored to build back his wall. “…I understand, my lord. I know now that I’ve overstepped my bounds… I–I hope you can forgive my insolence. I will go back to sleeping in my tent. If you will allow, I will come gather my things and move out tomorrow.”

The only thing he could have now was a graceful exit. Even that, however, was not to be as he felt the young man’s warm, callused hand grab his wrist.

“Cullen, wait. Please.”

The Commander wondered what more could be said. A final acknowledgement that he was in fact not wanted? That it was all in his head? He looked at the young man and found the cobalt eyes waver like candle flame in the wind. A wave of pain hit his heart anew. He had intuited correctly.

He quietly steeled himself and waited for the blow.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I like you a lot. I just… thought it would not be fair to you, because I don’t think I can fully reciprocate your feelings right away. You deserve someone who loves you as much as you love him. In fact… I know I’m not good enough for you.”

The blow he’d expected never came, but he was now baffled. How could the young man not be good enough for him? He did not believe in certitude, but in this he had no doubt. Tharin was perfect and Tharin was what he wanted.

“…I don’t quite follow. To me, you are flawless. If anything, I’ve been afraid that I… am not good enough for you. I am older than you by nine years and… my past will haunt me until the day I die. There are going to be many difficult days ahead because of that and I will end up weighing you down. So, if you are willing, I would be grateful to have whatever you can give.”

This was another truth Cullen was hesitant to verbalize before, but he nonetheless spoke plainly. There was nothing to be gained from holding back. Not anymore.

“You are worth so much more than you judge yourself for. I wish you could see that…” Cullen heard Tharin sniff, but he could not tell whether it was from the cold or something else. The young man’s right hand moved quickly across his eyes.

“Maker… I always thought you weren’t interested in men, let alone me, so I daren’t hope. And then we kissed, and my desire for you just took over… It was the only thing I could attend to. But I don’t want that. I mean, I do. I just don’t want you to think that what I feel for you is just lust, something that will be gone after one night. It’s much more than that.”

_What?_

“What I want is… to be with you. I want you to know that you are important to me, more than anyone else. I can’t lie and tell you that what I feel for you is… what you told me… but nothing would please me more than to be by your side, to keep you safe and happy. So…”

A momentary hesitation, followed by a voice as steady as a sonorous river flowing through the fertile delta unhindered and strong, “as trite as this will sound, I would like for us to wait until you are comfortable. With us, with… everything. When you’re fine with everything – and only if you truly are – I would like to show you that I am serious about this, about us.”

Cullen saw the brilliant sapphire eyes fixed on him. There was no waver in them now, only strength and acceptance. He felt too stunned to speak. A sound escaped his mouth and he realized after the fact that he inanely invoked the Maker’s name. It was like him to ruin the moment.

“Do you believe me?”

Every part of Tharin’s declaration was so far beyond the realm of possibility Cullen had imagined that it was taking his breath away. Yet as he watched the young man try his hardest to convince him and ask him to trust, offering a piece of the beating heart, he felt his defenses melt away. His fortress came undone, now just a pile of rubble. His love, though it would not to be reciprocated right now, was freed.

“Yes… Yes, of course, my lor–” As he fumbled through a response, he felt the rough hands once again cupping his face. The warmth, the warmth… All of this was threatening to overwhelm him.

“No. From now on, you are to call me by my name when we are alone. Not _my lord_ , _Herald_ , or _your worship_. Just my name.”

“Oh, um… Tharin…”

As if to reward the Commander’s acquiescence, the young man pecked his cheek. The spot instantly grew hot. “That’s better.”

More surprises. It was going to take a lot to keep up with his love, just as it should be. Because Tharin was perfect while he was unquestionably not.

“I’m yours, Cullen, if you will have me.”

“Yes… Tharin.”

The most dazzling smile Cullen had ever seen lit up Tharin’s face. He pulled Cullen into his burning bosom and they locked lips as if they had done it a thousand times. If the first two kisses were like staring into the scorching sun, the third was like letting the gentle warmth of a sunrise caress him.

But it did not take long for him to detect Tharin harden. His was about to respond in kind. Lust was a persistent companion. He had to make a difficult decision. He furrowed his brows apologetically and softly intoned, “I should get going.”

“Where to?”

“I accept your suggestion that we should wait. But if that were to happen, we cannot be in the same room by ourselves. Otherwise… I cannot promise I will leave you alone, and I can tell from your state that neither could you. So, I will have to stay in my tent for now.”

Cullen could not quite believe how lighthearted he felt. He could have skipped to the moons and skipped back in time for breakfast. Even as he suggested they separate for the night, he felt happiness.

“But it’s freezing out! I don’t want you to catch your death just because I–”

Tharin, a hulking warrior who feared naught and who was feared by all, could be so endearing when he was flustered. Cullen suppressed an urge to tease and instead kissed the young man’s forehead. “Sweet dreams. I will see you in the morning.” He then turned to leave before his resolve weakened. _Quickly now_ , he thought.

“Cullen!” The sound of his name suddenly pierced through the frozen air. He spun around and paused.

It took Tharin a moment to say something, and when the young man finally managed, his whole face reddened from the neck up. “Ah… Keep warm. Please.”

Just like that, the Commander could not suppress his mirth any longer. He waved to calm the worried expression. “I will. Don’t fret.”

It took Cullen everything he had to not call out right there and then, _I love you_.

***

Cullen’s humble tent was yet to be occupied by new recruits. All he had to do was put back the blankets on his cot to prepare for slumber. He lay down and looked up at the ridge, attempting in vain to fall asleep.

The moons were so full and lustrous that he could have counted the stitches on the canvas. It was colder now that much of his possessions were moved to the cabin. The wind blew through the empty space, never abating.

He thought strange how it felt like ages ago when he and Tharin supped and drank and revealed their past lives. Before they held hands. And kissed. And confessed everything.

_You must know that I like you, more than I should, far more than what is allowed… But you’ve made yourself clear that you don’t like me._

_I wasn’t lying when I said I like you a lot. I just… thought it would not be fair to you, because I don’t think I can fully reciprocate your feelings right away. You deserve someone who loves you as much as you love him._

Replaying their dialogues over and over in his head, Cullen gradually realized that he unintentionally forced Tharin’s hand with his timidity and the talk of love. If it were not clear before, the young man would know now that he was a total novice when it came to affairs of the heart.

The Commander pulled the comforter all the way up to his head, hiding his face underneath and muffling a frustrated groan. Only if the templars had taught him how not to act like a blundering half-wit in situations like this. His words were as subtle as a druffalo tearing through a glass display.

Yet everything turned out okay in the end. Better than okay. The things Tharin said… They were more than he could have ever hoped for. They lifted him up.

_What I want is… to be with you. I want you to know that you are important to me, more than anyone else… I’m yours, Cullen, if you will have me…_

There was no subtext to parse, no doublespeak. Tharin wanted him, even after the young man learned of his past, even after he learned of the unwanted love Cullen harbored. The young man wanted everything, his body and soul. The Commander felt like the luckiest man alive.

And they were standing so close. As they spoke to each other, Cullen felt the heat continuously emanate from Tharin. The young man’s hands were trailing down his spine to his hips, and he shivered at the memory. He could feel both of their erections rubbing through the fabrics and remembered wishing desperately to touch Tharin’s.

His groin was twitching. Lust would not loosen its grip on him.

“Sod it…”

He gave in and reached under the blanket to palm his hardness. Sticky fluid began to flow anew, leaking through the front of his smallclothes and reanimating the dried-up remnants of the excitement from before. The urge was overbearing. It was a beast that would not be calmed until fully satiated.

He slowly slid down the covers and took his hard length out. The head grazed the fabric of the smalls and he let out an involuntary moan.

“Ah… a, ha…”

He was now fully exposed to the freezing night air and the lust flagged for a moment, but soon came back with even more vicious insistence. He wet his right hand with saliva and began to trace around the head. Meanwhile, his left hand pulled back the foreskin all the way and moved down to cup his testes.

Every part of his body was sensitive, and he could not remember the last time he pleasured himself. He would not last long.

He closed his eyes and let his imagination – for a serious, dutiful former templar, quite an achievement indeed – spin a new image.

Tharin’s forehead was shining with sweat. The young man was grunting, his eyes filled with primal forces. His mouth was curled up in a playful smirk and he was whispering Cullen’s name. His muscled torso was writhing in heat, as he thrust slowly and deeply inside the Commander.

Cullen’s legs were splayed, giving Tharin unobstructed access. But he did not feel cheap or abused. He only felt vast love pouring in with each thrust. Tharin leaned forward, cupped Cullen’s buttocks, and lifted him up in his arms. Could he really do that? The young man was shorter than him.

Anything was possible in his vision. He gasped in shock as the young man invaded even deeper. His feet, perched on the young man’s shoulders, curled in pleasure. When their eyes met, Tharin’s eyes crinkled in joy. A guttural voice whispered earnestly.

“I love you, Cullen Rutherford.”

It startled him. Not just Tharin’s deep voice declaring his love, but also the act of intercourse itself. It had not occurred to the Commander before that he could be on the receiving end, but the idea of the young man entering him thrilled like nothing else.

Pleasure filled him up and overflowed. A blinding light flashed, and he climaxed. Quiet, but intense, followed by aftershocks and drowsy satisfaction. Only then did he realize that his legs were spread open and a third of his left middle finger was inside him. He awkwardly chuckled to himself as he used a washcloth to wipe the puddles on his stomach.

“Maker help me… This is going to be a long week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone manage to figure out the phrase Cullen uttered? Ten points to Gryffindor if someone did!
> 
> And I swear to the Maker, this is the last time there are chapters in which the same event is discussed from different POVs.
> 
> Next up, enter Leliana.
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	8. A Cause Greater than Any One of Us

The morning came and the enormity of what they had embarked upon was still sinking in.

Tharin and Cullen both kept mum about their osculation the night before. As though they had conspired in advance, neither man attempted to initiate any conversation on their walk to the clearing.

The cool morning air warbled, carrying with it stray petals of plum blossoms that little by little dotted them with spots of tender pink. Neither man took notice nor moved to brush them off.

Without liquid courage and the comforting embrace of darkness, Tharin was feeling too vulnerable, too afraid that if he talked in the harsh daylight it may expose things that he wanted Cullen to overlook. It was not that he wanted to conceal the more unsavory aspects of his person, but he was insecure enough about this new courtship that he was quick to fall back on obscurant impulses.

Yet predictably their budding relationship was the only thing he could think of. In any case, they had already revealed too much of themselves to trick each other, and Tharin knew this at least on the subconscious level.

The Herald sparred half-heartedly, and the Commander matched it with his own sluggishness. The clang of practice swords seemed to resound and stretch longer. Each man managed to hit the opponent with the sword point more than five times, which was unprecedented. Even with the armor, their torsos were sore from all the thrusts they endured.

It was obvious that Tharin and Cullen were both distracted. Acknowledging that any further time spent on training that morning was meaningless, they packed it in and headed back to the hamlet.

On their way back from the clearing, Tharin stuck close to the Commander. Eventually, the young man gathered enough courage to clasp Cullen’s left hand, which resulted in the other man blushing and flashing a shy smile.

Every time Cullen smiled like that, Tharin had to wonder how this beautiful man came to be so utterly alone. Anyone else with his looks and his personality would not want for company, but it was like the Commander welcomed seclusion. Did he view it as some sort of penance for his sins? He was an enigma, for sure.

Isolation in itself would not be so bad since Cullen was the type to relish his own company, but loneliness inevitably followed in its tow and that was something far more pernicious. Like rust or a slow death of consumption, loneliness ate away at one’s sense of worth until there was only a husk of individuality left. The Commander may have validly deserved some of the punishments he meted out on himself, but he certainly did not deserve this.

Under the efflorescing branches Tharin twined their fingers and brought the man’s left hand to his lips, firmly planting a kiss on the back. He wanted to doubly remind Cullen of his presence, that without a shred of doubt he was Cullen’s.

But ever the troublemaker, he also wanted to see the Commander’s blush take on a deeper shade of red, which he knew was inevitable after such a provocative touch. When Tharin turned, however, he only saw a whole plum blossom stuck amid the Commander’s soft blond curls.

He laughed the kind of laugh that leaves one short of breath and reached to extricate the errant flower from the man’s hair. Holding it out to Cullen, he asked jokingly, “Want to make a wish?”

He saw Cullen swallow hard. Positively beet red and absolutely unable to meet Tharin’s eyes directly, the Commander whispered, “I don’t need it. It’s yours… if you want.”

The sheepish proclamation all but wiped the mischievous smile off Tharin’s face. Cullen was too genuine, too pure for the kind of teasing he would have unleashed given the chance. Feeling unduly serious, he stopped in his tracks and tossed the blossom behind him. He susurrated, “It’s all superstitions anyway.” He saw Cullen’s right hand holding on to the sheathed sword loosen.

“I suppose you are correct,” the Commander’s voice was steady and deep. The profound flush remained entrenched on the man’s face, but he was finally able to look Tharin in the eyes evidently. There was an unmistakable glint in those wildflower-honey eyes and the soft grin was authentic. An unwarranted shudder passed through the young man’s solid body and he hoped the reverberating tremor was not noticed by the Commander.

When they passed the blacksmith’s and closed in on the gate, however, the concurrently awkward and engrossing intimacy vanished. The Commander tensed and hastily withdrew his hand. Tharin had fully expected it given the man’s private nature, but part of him still felt rebuffed.

No matter. When the young man turned, he saw Cullen’s furrowed brows and apologetic eyes and knew that one day Cullen would be confident enough to hold hands with him anywhere. Someday soon. He was sure of it.

Once they were inside the gate, they were confronted by a throng of soldiers and pilgrims leaving the chantry after the early morning service. It was remarkable to think that the same scene was being played out all over the world. The Maker could look down and expect to see chantrygoers file out after a service at the same hour every day, everywhere. From a tiny fishing village in Rivain to the grandest of castle towns in Orlais.

The simple truth of this Theodosian commonality invoked for Tharin a strong sense of déjà vu. He was back in Hasmal, back to being a sullen half-elven templar with an unruly mop of hair who was in love with a Circle mage. A mage who he couldn’t save.

Except, this time he was Andraste’s Chosen One, and he could marshal the Inquisition resources to protect all people of Thedas, including Cullen. He suddenly appreciated what his glowing left hand could do for him.

Unfortunately, that knowledge was not sufficient to soothe Tharin’s apprehensive heart. Its beats were quick and shallow, as though it knew Cullen was to be stolen from him like Kyr was. Tharin had to make certain that the Commander was alive, that death was not stalking them.

The young man knew what he was about to do was selfish, but the need overtook his body. He abruptly seized the Commander’s arm and pulled him into a little nook by a wooden hut. Hidden from the chantrygoers by a tall stack of firewood, Tharin whispered, “Forgive me,” and pulled Cullen in for a deep kiss.

The Commander froze at first, but soon relented and even drew him closer. There was nothing chaste about the kiss, but there was no lust either. It was desperate. Tharin was like a starving hunter chasing down a halla.

As the Herald ascertained Cullen’s existence before him, the anxiety gradually died down. When he opened his eyes, he saw a pair of warm eyes filled with worry. The young man embraced the Commander and apologized. “I am so sorry. It’s silly, but I needed to make sure that you are here… with me. And that we are together.”

“Ah. I–I don’t mind. Are you all right?”

Tharin leaned away, feeling so full of affection for this man. Unable to contain it, he reached out and gently stroked Cullen’s cheek. The Commander closed his eyes and nudged against the warm hand. The scarred face lit up with happy satisfaction. His rough fingers felt the prickles of Cullen’s stubble and the contact shot electricity through Tharin’s body.

“I am, thanks to you…” Another kiss, this time just a peck. “I will see you later in the war room.”

“Y, yes, your wors– Tharin.”

The first person the Herald saw as he left a confounded Cullen behind was Varric, who looked smug like a cat with a fresh kill dangling from its mouth. He whistled and clapped slowly as he watched Tharin make his way across the thoroughfare.

“So… Mind telling me how that happened?” An unnatural glimmer in his eyes let Tharin know that Varric had witnessed everything. The absconding, the kiss, and the touch – really, the whole package. There was no point in denying.

Tharin hoped the blush on his face was not too telling as he tried to sound indifferent. “I don’t believe it’s a matter that requires your attention, Master Tethras.” He curtly nodded and walked away at a brisk pace.

Not a moment later, he heard Varric snicker and shout, “That’s okay. I will just ask Curly.”

***

Cassandra seemed oblivious, confused, and aggravated even, but Josephine and Leliana were decidedly none of those. Something had developed between the Herald and the Commander, and it upset the flow of the meeting. Tharin was too distracted by smiling and staring at Cullen, and in turn Cullen was so nervous that he was barely coherent when reporting.

The two women exchanged knowing looks as Cullen blundered through the after action report from the Fallow Mire.

“Ah… Um… Fortunately, with the local Avvar allies aiding our soldiers, they managed to establish a new supply depot in the northeast… Uh… Pardon me, I meant, in the northwest corner of the marsh near a rift Lord Trevelyan closed during his first expedition to the… Um… The, the Fallow Mire.”

It was excruciating to watch the Commander flip through the pages back and forth, stuttering endlessly. Cassandra was pressing her fingers on the bridge of her nose, trying to contain the irritation rising like a yeasted dough.

Cullen simpered uncomfortably and cleared his throat as he wildly flipped through the pages once again. “I shall now summarize the action report from the Crossroads and the surrounding area, which should be… uh… Please bear with me… Should be here somewhere…”

The Seeker exploded.

“Oh, for Maker’s sake, Cullen. What has gotten into you!?”

Tharin promptly shot a reproachful look and sharply intoned, “Seeker Pentaghast, do please be respectful to the Commander.”

“But Tharin, he is clearly not prepared–”

The young man put on his authoritative expression, which Josephine and Leliana thought still needed some finessing. “I am certain the Commander is prepared. He just seems hesitant about the information because he’s not the one who went on the expedition. You cannot castigate him for that.”

Cassandra was staring at Tharin, agape. Cullen’s entire face reddened as his shoulders drooped and the report in his hands landed on the map table with a small thud. Josephine tried her hardest to suppress the giggles rising in the back of her throat.

Now back to his benevolent self, Tharin spoke tenderly, “I believe it would only be appropriate for me to explain the situations in the Fallow Mire and the Crossroads. I will do so at the end of the meeting. Now, I’d like to hear from Lady Montilyet about tracking down the rebel mages.”

The Diplomat did not expect to be called upon so soon and her suppressed titter morphed into a coughing fit that lasted for a good half minute. With her throat raw and eyes tearing up, Josephine began to speak in a strained voice.

“Ah, yes, my lord. I’ve contacted the diplomatic communities in Orlais and Ferelden, and it appears that…”

Leliana scanned the room. Predictably enough, Cassandra was silently fuming with her arms folded. The practice dummies of Haven should expect severe thrashings today. Cullen was staring into an empty spot on the map of Ferelden – maybe Lake Calenhad, which according to him looked like a bunny –, obviously hating himself and not paying attention to Josephine. And the Herald was back to gazing at the Commander, though now with a worried look in his visage instead.

The Spymaster sighed in annoyance. She’d hoped the workload today would be light but much to her dismay, luck was not on her side.

***

After the meeting, Cullen could not exit the room fast enough. He even ignored Tharin calling after him. He finally came to a stop in the courtyard outside the chantry and exhaled loudly. A sudden pat on his shoulder startled him.

“Commnder, may I take a moment of your time?”

There stood Leliana, managing to look intimidating in her tiny frame as usual. Though unnerved by the sudden appearance of the Spymaster, Cullen kept on an impassive face to match her naturally expressionless state. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

The woman was quiet for a brief moment. “I think it would be best if we had this chat in a more private setting.” Without waiting for a response, she started walking and motioned Cullen to follow her.

After they walked away from staring onlookers who no doubt would appreciate a very public verbal match between the Inquisition’s Spymaster and its Commander, Leliana guided her colleague to a secluded spot behind the chantry building. She leaned against the stone wall and exhaled softly.

“I can tell there is something happening, and I’d like to be kept in the loop.”

“If this is about my display in the war room, I apologize. It will not happen again.”

“Oh, Commander, you shouldn’t try to be mysterious. You’ve no talent for it. Since I will find out eventually – and believe me, I _will_ find out –, let us cut to the chase. What is going on between you and the Herald?”

“Leliana, I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”

The Spymaster tilted her head either in frustration or amusement, it was unclear to Cullen since her face remained terrifyingly still. She crossed her arms as if she were readying herself for an interrogation of a hostile agent.

“Very well then… I shall reveal my hand.” She sighed and smoothed a strand of stray hair before continuing, “It’s been clear from my agents’ reports, and my own eyes and ears that the Herald cares for you. I gathered he is interested in you romantically. But I didn’t realize that you were interested in him or how far the things have developed.”

“Wait, you have agents stationed here? Watching us?”

Leliana frowned ever so slightly, “Of course. You knew I would.”

After scoffing at how unfazed she was, Cullen followed his instinctual recourse, which was to obfuscate. “You might need to have your mind-reading ability checked. Your assessment is quite off the mark actually.”

The carefully constructed veneer of the Spymaster crumbled to reveal a twisted smirk that could have churned the stomach of Andraste herself. She had him in her palm and she knew it. “Come now, I’ve had my telepathic third eye looked at last week and it’s working perfectly. I assure you I know what I am talking about.” She stared intently into Cullen’s eyes, unblinking, her icy blue irises peering into his soul. Cullen felt naked.

After a seemingly everlasting moment of a silent stare, Leliana turned away. Cullen breathed in relief, though not too loudly. The redhead’s voice lost its edge, now sounding almost wistful.

“What do you know about the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Only that he died slaying the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight. And that you fought beside him.”

“That’s only half the story. I… killed the Warden.”

Cullen blinked. “Come again?”

“Before the final battle, a sorceress in our party suggested that she perform a ritual to save the Warden. It involved him laying with her to create a child that would absorb the soul of the Old God from the Archdemon. Instead of killing the Warden, the soul would be safely entombed in the child. At least that’s what she asserted.

“I watched as the Warden refused her without a second thought and the witch left us. I wailed, asking him why he had turned her down. He said he refused because he loved me and that he did not want a child to be born burdened with something that none of us even understood, let alone control.”

When Leliana turned to look at Cullen he could see a tiny sliver of anguish reflected in her eyes.

“And he died. It was a meaningless waste of a worthy life. For years I’ve thought about what I should have done differently. I shouldn’t have let the witch get away. Regardless of the consequence for the child, I should have forced the Warden to follow through with the ritual. I don’t know if any of it would have made a difference… But I believe his love for me was what drove him to choose death over life. So yes… I am the one responsible for the Warden’s death.”

The Commander started reaching out but stopped midway. He knew the woman would not take it well. “Leliana, I am so sorry for your loss. But I don’t quite follow why you are telling me this.”

“The resemblance should be obvious to you. The Warden and the Herald?”

Cullen was sharp in his own way. It did not take long for something to click in his head. “You mean…”

“For his sake and for your sake, you need to end things with him.” The trace of emotion in her voice was long gone and Leliana stated it as if she were listing off chores. Cullen imagined: pick up two loaves of bread and a cheese wedge from the market, and make sure to clean the fireplace. Oh, and don’t forget to break off with the Herald of Andraste on your way back.

Cullen grasped for any possible pretext he could use to ignore her dictate, anything to convince himself that her motive was suspect. “Is this because the Herald and I are both… men?”

The stomach-churning smirk was back, and Cullen’s heart did flips. “Oh, Commander. Give me some credit. I hardly care whether the Herald chooses a man or a woman or an undead mage in a disguise of a bronto as his lover. What I am concerned about is the fact that his feelings for you may cloud his judgment.”

His anger was like a wildfire, it ignited without warning and burned everything in its path. He clenched his fists. “Just what right do you have to dictate the terms of our private lives? Who do you think you are?”

“I am you, and you are me. We are both bit players in the stage set for heroes, yet we gain the power to destroy them through romantic entanglements.”

“I do not intend to harm the Herald in any way. I would rather end my life before anything like that happens.” The Commander could hear the volume of his voice increasing, but he did not care. He wanted her to know just how angry he was.

“That’s the catch, you see. It’s never what you intend, but it happens anyway. You will become a burden to him. And this time things will be worse for the Herald because he’d already lost someone. He will do anything to protect you and along the way he will make choices that harm our cause because of you. Choices that will get him killed.”

“…I am _not_ a burden.” Cullen added with a strained voice, mostly because he had a sinking feeling that it was true. Tharin had already given him so much and he gave back nothing. What would it be like in a month’s time? In a year? In a lifetime?

Regardless of Cullen’s fury, Leliana seemed determined to drive the point home. “No, you are not. Yet. Which is why I am telling you now. Stand aside, don’t let yourself become the reason he deviates from his destined path. His legacy is just beginning.”

 _Whereas mine is winding down_ , Cullen filled in the blanks and grimaced at the thought.

Leliana’s gaze softened slightly. She murmured in probably her most considerate voice, “You must know that all I want is for the Inquisition to succeed, for the Herald to succeed. I desire nothing else.”

She was right, but nevertheless Cullen was pained. The anger had burned itself out and in his clenched fists were just ashes of despair. He reached for his nape before becoming conscious of the habit and dropped his hand.

“What do you need me to do?”

He lifted his face to find Leliana with a look of genuine pity. He was not sure why, but her expression of sympathy was more terrifying than her smirk.

“First, you need to stop training with the Herald every morning. You may tell him that getting the troops ready for the upcoming expedition to the Breach must take precedence and that you have become too busy, which is not untrue. You will find a skilled templar to replace you as the training partner.

“Second, you must tell him in no uncertain terms that you do not want to pursue the relationship any further. You will not fraternize with the Herald outside the war room or other strategy meetings. You shouldn’t avoid him, but do not seek him out either. It will only make it harder for you to let go of the bond.

“Finally, you are not to go out into the field with him anymore. It is simply too time-consuming and dangerous for you, and he will become even more dependent on your company.”

Every item on the list hit Cullen deeply, but it was when the Spymaster added with a forlorn tone that he felt a part of him – the part that nurtured his love for Tharin and perked up every time he thought about the young man – fall silent. “You and I are both damaged goods. We have seen and done too many things that are evil and unnecessarily violent. The Herald still has a chance to avoid our fate and become a champion who deserves people’s affections.”

Cullen wanted to reciprocate the pain Leliana was inflicting on him. He bitingly retorted, “Like the Hero of Ferelden?”

“…Yes… Like him.”

He turned away and spat, “Thank you, Sister. I will report back to you with the result post haste.”

“Thank you.”

The Commander did not dare look at the Spymaster’s face. He started to walk away but stopped. He then whispered in a faint voice, “Forgive me for mentioning the Warden. It was unworthy of me.”

She gave him no answer.

The Herald’s cabin beckoned Cullen and he dragged his tired shell toward it. The place he’d spent two weeks making a home – that was where he wanted to be. The candlelight radiating from the peephole let him know that The Herald was inside.

That soft glow was tempting, inviting, and he knew that if he were to open the door Tharin would welcome him in and make him feel truly good about himself for the first time since he became a templar. The young man’s kind heart accepted and cared for Cullen along with all the sad, unfixable memories of the past. But it was precisely that past which rendered him undeserving of the Herald’s attention.

Happiness was just a feeling. Ephemeral, illusory. That knowledge was never far from his mind. It was just that he had forgotten he wasn’t worthy of even a momentary respite from life’s battles, not after he screamed for the Right of Annulment in Kinloch and certainly not after the Gallows. And remembering it hurt badly.

The young warrior would always be the people’s Herald of Andraste, never Cullen Rutherford’s Haretharin. He had to accept that. As Leliana said, he was a damaged good and did not deserve the man anyway.

The Commander turned away from the front door. The darkness enveloped him as it did Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Cullen... What are you planning to do?
> 
> Next up, the abyss.
> 
> Since the next chapter is long, as in longer than 11k words, I've decided to update in two waves again - once on Saturday, January 23 at 2 pm EST, and another on Sunday, January 24 at 2 pm EST.
> 
> Also, I just started Tumblr because I still live in 2011. Find and follow me at https://isk4649.tumblr.com
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	9. The Abyss, Part 1: The Onus of Which Compels Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> January 23, 2021: This is a short transitional chapter that illustrates Cullen's thought process. I will upload the rest of the chapter tomorrow afternoon!

Before Cullen became fully consumed by his desire to join the templars and began to spend all of his spare time training, his pa used to take him and his older sister Mia on supply runs to Redcliffe.

It wasn’t often. It would take nearly two days in their buggy each way and there was always far too much to be done at the farm. But when they did go, Pa made sure to make an excursion of it. After all, they didn’t have too many chances to get away from Ma’s watchful eyes and the screaming bundles of joy that were supposedly his younger siblings.

The highway to Redcliffe was a laughable excuse for a trunk road, but it was idyllic. It kept close to a shallow river and roamed the forested hills of Ferelden in unison.

The river was like a living animal. Near his family homestead it was no more than a brook, burbling and smashing against pointed boulders. As the family rode by the ravines, the brook emitted infinitesimal droplets of the purest, most immaculate water. They fogged up the air and made Cullen’s face tingle.

The brook turned into a creek that ran down the rapids like a breathless pup, but it eventually reached more level terrain and matured into a calm flow that harmonized rather than struggled against the earth.

Young Cullen knew to wait for the great confluence where their river cannibalized its sister tributary. There, they would forsake the clear waters of the branch they followed and ford the muddy right branch into the mountains. From this point, they were halfway to their destination.

The very first time Pa took him to Redcliffe was at the tail end of a long, bitter winter. As they headed north, Cullen discovered thin, forked stakes jutting out in the lower reaches of the transparent river. They seemed out of place, the only visible obstacles in the smooth flow. But there they were, standing without purpose, looking desolate as they silently withstood icy waters.

Curious, young Cullen asked what they were for. Enigmatically enough, Pa’s face beamed with happiness as he merely said, “You will see.” Cullen wanted to pry but settled on waiting. That seemed like the right thing to do, what with his father looking so giddy.

On their return, Cullen found that the scenery had changed dramatically. The stakes were no longer deserted but were now holding up wooden beams somehow adorned with strips of the most vivid colors. On closer inspection, he realized they were fabrics floating on the river.

As the buggy neared the shallows, he saw a kaleidoscope of colors from scarlet to goldenrod to indigo, encapsulated by every known design from checks to florals to lifelike drawings of peafowls and cranes. Long swathes of gaily hued cloth swayed elegantly within the river, brightening up the landscape tyrannized by winter. Their brilliance gallantly battled the overbearing white of melting snow and the uniform browns of bare trees.

Young and green, Cullen experienced his first frustration at the baffling incapacity to express in words the sight he beheld and the emotions he felt.

When he looked back with a surprised look, Pa guffawed most ebulliently.

“That there’s silk, Cul. Really fancy cloth.”

He went on to explain that the textiles were destined to be sold in upscale boutiques in all Theodosian capitals, including Denerim.

His precocious sister, silent until now, chimed in, “But if they are so precious, why’d the people put them in the river?”

“That’s because they have to wash off the excess dyes and starch. The icy water makes sure the colors don’t bleed and it brings out the patterns more clearly. Although I guess they wouldn’t want to leave them in there too long.”

With that, Pa gave Cullen’s tight curls a playful tousle. Young Cullen turned back and intently watched until the shimmering colors melted into the bland snowscape.

***

It wasn’t hard for the Commander to figure out why he was suddenly reminded of this memory, why his mind decided to excavate this particular fragment of his childhood that had been relegated to deep storage.

What he was about to do, it was not unlike washing off the dyes from the silk. The only difference was that it would be Tharin that needed to be scoured off of his heart. He lamentably did not have the luxury of letting the gentle currents of time work their way. He had to plunge into the river and wring the feelings out himself until his hands were cold and raw, the threads pilling. Surely, he couldn’t demand the love that was so ardently melded to the core of his being to let go and fade away without at least that much travail.

Yet fade it would, to be transmuted into something unknown. Like how the colors before and after washing were two different shades identified by their own distinct names.

At the same time Cullen couldn’t turn a blind eye to the truth, however inconvenient. He knew that even after the colors faded, the outlines of the pattern would still remain, a constant reminder of what he had stowed away. That, much like the twists and turns of his past, could not be helped. He had to remember that what he was determined to do was for the good of everyone. He could vacillate no more.

Three days. Just three days. That was all he was willing to allow himself. One day to savor the young man’s companionship for the last time, one day to vent his anger at himself for being so bloody worthless for it, and one day to accept what he couldn’t change. After those days, he would excise Tharin and every scrap of comfort the man offered from his wretched life.

The Commander was all too familiar with the process, having undergone it in several other comparable occasions. He had to erase the little blonde whose smile rendered him speechless before he left Honnleath for the Order; to erase the mentor whose arms he wanted to be held by before he left for Kinloch Hold; and before Uldred broke him, to erase the mage whose sweet overtures buoyed his spirit ceaselessly. He now found it easy to converse and laugh and kiss as before. At first anyway.

To his chagrin, he found that things were unfolding rather differently this time around. The biggest challenge turned out to be his own flagging will to keep up the appearance of normalcy, however this notion of normalcy may actually be interpreted as.

Maybe that was the problem now. Cullen wasn’t sure what his _normal_ was anymore. The careful equilibrium he had achieved since the disaster in Kirkwall, attained from the paralyzing guilt and assured by his isolation from others, had been thoroughly shattered. His impossible love made him avaricious, thirsting after all that life could offer. And in avarice, there was no balance. That optimistic yearning threatened to overrun the sensible resignation, hence no equilibrium.

Nonetheless, Cullen could proudly declare that he had never forgotten his obligation to the Inquisition. No one could accuse him of being willfully ignorant of what he was supposed to do. So he decided to rely on this invariable, with an implicit understanding that the duties he executed as Commander of the Inquisition’s forces could form a pillar that would prop up what he considered his normalcy. A homing beacon for him to find his way back to the reassuring equilibrium from before.

***

After spending two days quietly obsessing over that balance and consecutively trying to impose some semblance of self-possession, he only realized Tharin was closely studying him on the last morning. Cullen figured he had been wearing a troubled expression and was able to flash a smile as a diversion, though he worried it came out crooked and prayed for it not to be so.

After their training the young man approached and asked cautiously, “Is everything all right?”

Cullen’s heart was beating like a hummingbird’s, but he managed to keep his hand from quaking as he wiped his forehead. He spoke in the steadiest voice he could muster, “Why wouldn’t everything be okay?”

The young man seemed taken aback by the indifference in the Commander’s voice. If only his love could see that it was taking him so damn much to hold back the tumult within and achieve that indifference.

Timidly, Tharin ventured, “You just seemed a bit preoccupied. I want to help.” He was almost cowering, sounding apologetic for having stirred up trouble.

To that unequivocal candor, there was nothing Cullen could say. He busied himself with a towel even though he had worked it over his face and neck already. Soon he could no longer deny that he was merely dabbing phantom beads of sweat, but he carried on.

When there was no reply, Tharin once again inquired in a low voice, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

The Commander finally replied, though it came out in a terser tone than he’d wanted, “I’m fine.”  
He took a deep breath and said in what he thought was a gentler voice, “I am fine. I swear.”

Tharin wore a telling frown. The young man was not convinced. “You would tell me if there was something wrong, right?” He sounded so incredibly vulnerable that the Commander had to press down the urge to engulf him in a tight embrace and confess everything. And those depthless sapphire eyes. They would be the death of him.

“Cullen?”

Barely able to catch his breath, the Commander heaved weightily, “Of course I would.” Another phony smile from Cullen, another empty promise.

The Commander decided to deflect, thinking how cowardly he was being. “Come, you have a busy day ahead. Let’s get some food in you.” Giving no time for a proper response, Cullen threw his arm around the other man’s sturdy shoulders and pulled closer. He pecked the rose-tinted cheek and whispered teasingly, “Does that sound okay, Tharin?” He took those little gestures that ought to be proof of a true affection and corrupted them into a means of deception.

With a soft noise of surprise, the young man grinned. A candid expression of fondness that the likes of Cullen did not deserve to receive. Feeling like a heap of garbage, Cullen quickly turned away from the trusting eyes.

At the gate, the Commander was met by a runner who loaded him up with papers from Josephine’s office. They consisted of the usual busywork like approvals for troop assignments and supply purchase orders. He was grateful for the work, since it would help hide his thoughts as he shared a breakfast with Tharin.

In the crowded tavern, Cullen found himself growing taciturn as he listened to Tharin talk animatedly. He cursorily glanced at the documents and mechanically inscribed his signature to each leaf as the pleasantly bass voice filled his ears with nothing particularly important. Mostly terrible impressions of other advisors that were comedic all the same.

But when Cullen finally dared to lift his gaze from work, he saw a thoughtful face with searching eyes and a brow accented by a slight dimple in the middle. Cullen’s chest was suddenly hit by a tide of something overwhelming. Quite troublesome, really.

His errant hand relinquished the quill and reached out. He watched as it grasped Tharin’s left hand and their fingers weaved in one smooth motion. The Anchor fizzled unexpectedly, and he could feel the magical energy pulse, but his hand held on. Surrounded by a sea of unintelligible chatters, the two men sat in their private island, unmindful and uncaring of others.

Mesmerized by the sheer force of the sensations that crashed through him, Cullen murmured, “…I love you.”

The Commander knew he had done wrong right away and chastised himself for a slipup that was not so insignificant. But the genuine happiness those words let loose from the abyss of his conscious completely circumvented the sharp rebuke and swaddled him whole.

Tharin halted abruptly and sputtered, “Oh. I…” A protracted moment of silence followed. As comfortable awkwardness filled the vacuum, the young man raised his thick eyebrows, and his cheeks were dyed rosier. Tharin’s hand relaxed, the very one that made him the Herald of Andraste and brought the two of them together. The young man’s eyes sparkled despite the palpable sheepishness and he peeped, “I care for you too.”

Cullen smiled.

Because he knew that his gratuitous _I love you_ was the last scintilla of total honesty he could give.

But with that small exchange he felt his resolve erode further. It might be that even his fastidious devotion to the shoulds and the musts in his life was not sufficient for him to surrender Tharin. So Cullen decided to do something so heinous, so cruel, that he could not possibly hope to be forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, devastation and its immediate aftermath.
> 
> I started Tumblr! I will regularly update with news of _Honor and Will_ as well as a new Tharin/Cullen AU fic that is currently WIP. Find and follow me at https://isk4649.tumblr.com
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	10. The Abyss, Part 2: For All Must Heed Its Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! References to graphic sexual acts, implied sexual violence, severe PTSD, homophobic comments, and mild self-harm. Really, this chapter's got everything.

The night was windy and clouds with sharp edges traversed the sky one by one. They kept obscuring the moons and stars momentarily, and it was like the heavens could not decide whether to keep the lights on or off. Cullen wanted to extinguish all the light above, to hide the ugliness of his battered soul.

Like in a dream, he was standing in front of the Herald’s cabin once again, dressed in his best ensemble. He had come to a certain decision earlier and tonight he was going to carry out that deed.

After compelling himself to knock on the door, the man surrendered all control. He would let his ravenous body, not his distressed mind, guide his actions hence. The warm light from the cabin flooded and his vision reverberated with each percussive beat of his heart.

Before him stood his personal icon of happiness and sorrow, imparting an ingenuous smile. “Cullen! It’s good to see you. Come on in.”

Cullen’s hefty body lurched forward, obediently following the command like one of those golem horrors – created from molten lyrium ironically enough, he mused for a fraction of a second – of yore. The young man walked back to allow his entrance. But he dared for more. He made sure to grasp the doorknob as he entered and swung his arm back to shut the door. He watched with effervescent concupiscence the man whose bright cobalt eyes widened at the loud bang.

Tharin was trying to talk, but the effort did not amount to a corresponding result. There was no hesitation in Cullen’s steps as he closed what little space that remained between them. In a split second his palms held the young man’s face, their warm bodies were pressed together, and his lips were reunited with their rightful companions.

A drowning seafarer Cullen was, already wading far below the surface. Suspended in an airless, lightless, and timeless purgatory, he had accepted the slow descent into the lonely, quiet oblivion that was Leliana’s directive. Frantic gasps for breath would only hasten the descent. Yet his traitorous heart beat and it incited him to grab onto the kiss, as though it were a thin rope being lowered into the ocean.

He held on to the kiss with all his might.

And through those precious lips he tasted the fragile aspiration for better things, a fleeting chance to be rescued from the ocean floor where the coldest and the barest of the currents trudged aimlessly.

As their tongues danced together he was finally able to savor a prerogative of youth that seemed to evade his grasp at every turn – the right to be carefree in his affections and the right to be loved in return. His life’s assorted disappointments and the despondency at his destitute state combined to form am impure amalgam of frenzied heat that perverted Tharin’s torturous choice to maintain celibacy in their courtship.

When Cullen’s wayward hand reached for the front of Tharin’s trousers, the young man abruptly broke from the heated osculation and backed away. His hands shot up, though they merely hung in the air rather than pushing the Commander away.

Tharin’s deep voice shook and not from the nerves. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you sure you want to do this? Are you certain that you are comfortable with… us?” He overly enunciated the last sentence. The blue irises conveyed fierce desire that made Cullen’s already engorged cock twitch, yet Tharin’s expression was indecisive.

Cullen leaned forward, but just before their lips met again, he pulled away ever so slightly. He whispered and as the air between them vibrated, he knew the young man shivered. “Tharin, please.” He felt ridiculous and desperate as he continued, “Don’t you want me?”

But it was all worth it to see a smoldering gaze in return that threatened to devour the Commander whole, body and soul.

“Maker… You have no idea.” With that, the young man came around, his hands now enthusiastically squeezing Cullen’s buttocks.

The touch was electrifying. The Commander didn’t want to stop himself from breaking out in a foolish smile. Cullen proclaimed, “Then you shall have me,” hoping to counteract any remaining uncertainty in Tharin. No longer held back by the unspoken apprehension in each other, Cullen freely palmed the hardness in the young man’s trousers and was gifted with a drawn-out moan of appreciation. The man approached closer and whispered in Tharin’s right ear, “And I shall have you, my lord.”

 _My lord, my prince, my bulwark_.

The young man slowly nodded, biting his lower lip.

The two men resumed kissing frenetically as they pushed and pulled each other toward the young man’s unmade bed. It was fairly juxtaposed against Cullen’s new bed, the corners of which were made perfectly in razor-sharp perpendicular angles and remained untouched.

In spite of ragged breath, the Commander laughed unreservedly and teased Tharin, “For a full-fledged templar, you sure don’t know how to make the bed.”

The Herald countered easily, “Hasmal templars were known to be slobs. If you’ve a problem, take it up with the Knight-Commander.”

The stray humor did not still their hands as they expeditiously rid themselves of clothes that were suddenly so bothersome even in this windy, chilly night. First, the Herald’s worn shirt that must have been washed and dried hundreds of times. And then off went Cullen’s crimson woolen tunic and the matching leather belt. They were followed by both men’s trousers swiftly shed and cast aside, with the insides turned out and overlooked.

Now with only the smallclothes precariously clinging to their exposed bodies, the blond took his time and retreated a step to admire the marble statue of a man standing in front of him. With one crucial difference, however. Cullen had never seen a sculpture with such a brazenly pronounced bulge in the middle.

When Tharin noticed the Commander’s decidedly irreverent smile, he blushed and held his hands over the smalls, unwittingly tincturing his privates verdigris from the Anchor. Tharin then chided in a voice that was near inaudible, “What?” Cullen grinned wordlessly as his eyes traveled down and took note of every detail regardless of its significance.

The Herald of Andraste exuded eroticism. His coal-black hair, though not quite leonine, was mussed from the day’s labor and the Commander found its untidiness irresistible. Tharin’s back was bent forward in an apparent attempt to mitigate the sheer nakedness, but it only served to highlight the well-developed musculature.

In the right light, each of the man’s defined biceps appeared to be nearly as thick as his torso. A tuft of short hair, not as profuse as Cullen’s, covered the shoal channel that ran down the middle of the chest, neatly demarcating the prominent pectorales. And from those great muscles jutted out two petite domes of rubies that implored to be rubbed and tweaked.

Tharin’s abdomen was toned and firm. It fairly contrasted with Cullen’s own, which had lost its definition in the onslaught of stress, age, and the recovering appetite after the initial shock of lyrium withdrawal. Not too much extra, just enough to make him feel ursine.

Cullen felt mild embarrassment, as though he had become a rotund armchair general. He glanced down at the belly that seemed to have doubled in size in the last ten seconds, but when he reverted the attention back to the young man, he saw a flushed face still filled with uninhibited craving. His exposed body, with all its flaws and imperfections, must have been a welcoming sight for Tharin and he was glad.

The Commander’s observant eyes finally landed on the two solid legs that buttressed a fortress of a body that thrummed with superhuman energy. The countless valleys, mountain ranges, and peaks the young man must have forged through in the adventures away from Haven, he could only imagine. He marveled at the thighs and the calves covered by patches of coarse fleece. Despite the dense hair, the veins on them were practically jumping out at him.

Any lingering qualms derived from the tainted motivation of his actions washed away as Cullen hungrily perused all aspects of this veritable paragon of male physique. He closed in once again and murmured, “You are beautiful.” Too beautiful for the likes of him, but for one night and one night only…

Bit by bit, Cullen nibbled away at the soft skin along the neck and the left shoulder. He could feel the sharp lines drawn by taut muscles and tendons underneath, no doubt filled with somatic potency. Meanwhile he did not let his hands hang back and idle, as they carefully teased the stiffened nipples and pawed Tharin’s chest.

The warrior seemed to be melting in Cullen’s arms. He gasped the Commander’s name as the man’s lips descended. A kiss here, a kiss there.

Cullen placed little pecks as if to distinguish each part of Tharin’s solid body until he reached the full patch of curly hair above the pelvis. The Commander then moved to palm the flimsy piece of fabric that was threatening to give out on the tumescent manhood.

Cullen pushed the young man onto the bed and knelt down. Tharin yelped in surprise, but when their eyes met, he saw tempestuous passion and poignant affection occupy the piercing gaze in equal measure. Cullen eagerly divested the man of his smalls and admired the cock that sprang to attention. With an unsteady hand he grabbed the shaft and felt it pulse in rapid succession. After a moment of awe-struck inspection, he bowed down and swallowed the glans.

It did not taste at all like what the Commander expected, not to suggest that he had been daydreaming about it. In fact, it did not taste like anything. It was really the scent that his senses gravitated toward. A distinctly masculine musk that would not be characterized as agreeable or sweet, but it was driving him absolutely mad. His own erection was so hard it ached.

But the Commander was still self-conscious, hoping against hope his nerves would not disrupt the action of pleasing Tharin. At least the guttural moan and a hand perched on the top of his head appeared to communicate a positive reaction. After a good while later, however, Cullen did end up letting his nerves get the better of him and pushed himself too much. When he gagged the spasm tickled his throat, and he shot back before he could sneeze and hurt the young man.

“Are you okay?”

Absolutely detesting his incompetence and trying to breathe at the same time, Cullen rasped, “I’m fine.”

Something greatly sinister, something Cullen hadn’t had to confront for some time, began to emerge in the back of his mind. But that darkness was still small enough that he could control it. And so, he managed to quash it.

The Commander attempted to shake the thoughts away and get back forthwith, but he felt two callused hands on his cheeks. They lifted him gingerly.

With an impish grin shining on his face, Tharin declared, “My turn.” He kissed Cullen and it was suddenly he who was in charge. He stood up and ordered, “Sit.”

Almost in a trance, the Commander obeyed. The two switched places. Now it was the young man who was on his knees, Cullen on the bed. Tharin peppered Cullen’s curvy, hirsute stomach with small kisses until his mouth was tracing the hardness over the smalls.

“You… don’t have to.” The faint protest sounded unpersuasive even to the Commander himself.

A pair of blue flames stared back at him. A pair of strong arms pinned Cullen’s legs in place. “I want to.” The young man’s heavy breath hitting the sensitive part sent shivers that traversed his bare body. The Commander felt slightly trapped yet nodded in assent.

After applying maddeningly tantalizing caresses for what seemed like eons, Tharin expertly removed the last piece of fabric on Cullen. He then confidently grasped the cock and swallowed it down to the base in one go. The Commander instantly forgot to be timid about the completeness of his own nudity like all the candles in the room had been snuffed out and was soon awash with new sensations.

And unbelievable they all were. For a novitiate like Cullen, they were nearly overpowering. But with the large hands keeping the thighs locked in place, he couldn’t move. Only the young man’s head with its untamed onyx locks bobbed. Sometimes it moved further down, the tongue massaging the balls and every nerve ending in their vicinity.

Tharin was more thorough and without a doubt more attentive than Cullen had been, and the guilt at his oversight trickled and stained his enjoyment. But when he tried to speak, or repent more aptly, he discovered that he was only capable of disjointed grunts. He placed his hands on top of Tharin’s. There was not much else he could do.

All of a sudden, the young man stopped, looked up, and gave a diffident grin. “How are you? Tell me if you want me to stop at any moment. Whatever you want, Cullen, it’s all right by me.”

Cullen knew that he’d become choked up if he let himself. So he blinked and whispered, “Okay.”

The young man’s face seemed positively radiant as he dove back down. Although the trip from the front door to the bed was tumultuous and the lust he saw in his partner was as real as it could be, Tharin was a gentle lover and the Commander was appreciative. Their intercourse was an altogether different event compared to the nightmarish specter of his desecration that haunted the deserted corridors and chambers of the Ferelden Circle now. The tenderness and the overflowing love it elicited was more than enough to make Cullen’s heart tighten.

The Commander closed his eyes and sealed his lips as his throat rang with an emission that was between a moan and a cry. The young man slackened the hold on the man’s thighs and twined their hands. The velvety mouth never ceased working him over in the meantime.

As Cullen felt an orgasm surge, he gripped the hands tighter. He didn’t want to come. His first priority was to pleasure Tharin, not himself.

“…Stop.”

As soon as he whispered, the young man bolted and Cullen saw a face filled with acute fear. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. I don’t want to finish yet. I want you in me.” Cullen pulled Tharin into an intense kiss. The two tumbled in the bed, careless of the creased sheets and the messily thrown comforter. In between urgent gasps for air, Cullen elevated his feet off the floor, wet a finger on his right hand, and hurriedly reached for his perineum. He couldn’t help but let a small groan escape into the young man’s open lips as he impatiently massaged the entrance.

Suddenly, the Commander felt a hand overtake his fingers. His love spoke in a tentative yet kind voice, “Have you ever…”

“Taken someone’s hard cock up my hole in real life? No, you are my first.” The wanton vulgarity helped Cullen relax. The impropriety reminded him of his own belief that his body was not a sacred entity but a tool to be deployed as he saw fit. The middle digit slipped in with little effort. He sighed deeply as the young man drew a sharp breath.

Thankfully, Tharin did not annotate his uncharacteristically lewd words. The concern was about something else. “Are you sure about this? We don’t have to. In fact, it would make me feel better if we worked our way up to it gradually.”

“Please, m-my… Tharin. It’s what I want.”

Against the searching eyes, Cullen made a supplicant face. He no longer cared whether it would make him look risible or irredeemably licentious. A soft smile returned. Always with that gentleness, as though he was worth it. “Then we’ve got to slow down. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The young man motioned for Cullen to roll over, and he followed the command dutifully. “On your knees, lean forward.” His back was arched and turned heavenward. The powerful hands took ahold of his ankles, pulling the legs apart and exposing everything.

Cullen’s naïveté made him wonder, but he needed not wonder for long. He let forth a whine when he felt Tharin’s lips on his left buttock. He could feel them moving further and further in until he felt the man’s tongue graze the most intimate spot.

“You… shouldn’t.” He stumbled through the words and breaths. “It’s… unclean.”

“You came prepared, right?”

Even as the young man spoke, the warm and rough hands kept kneading his cheeks. Frantic gasps and nothing else. He was conquered, bound, and detained in the dominion of despotic delectations.

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

Cullen could not speak anymore. His brain had gone berserk. A strange tingling sensation spread from his bottom to the rest of the body. The exotic sensory input seized everything and controlled his response, which amounted to null. Any objections left in him were supplanted by docile indulgence.

Incoherent even to himself when this particular form of tactual attack commenced, the Commander’s unending panting eventually took on a more discernible form of consonants and vowels: “Tharin… Tharin…”

The moment the sound became clear enough to understand, the hands and the mouth broke the contact. The owner of that name, which the Commander had called forth repeatedly in half daze, asked, “Stop?”

“No, don’t stop,” Cullen exhaled in heartrending loss.

“You sure?”

“Please.”

And he was immediately rewarded with more.

As he bathed in an unfathomable and incomprehensible pleasure, time seemed to come to a standstill. Or at least it seemed to flow sluggishly, each second stretched to a minute and each minute stretched to an hour. Cullen closed his eyes again, but to concentrate on the relentless waves of tactile stimulation this time.

“Take a deep breath, I’m going to finger you,” informed the young man in an excited and nervous voice.

After all the preparation and with plenty of saliva the first entered easily, but the second digit was met with a bit more resistance. “Try to push out,” the young man mumbled. And when Cullen followed the instructions, he felt himself open up and another finger push in smoothly.

After penetrating his depths, the fingers curled toward his front and rubbed against something that assaulted him with a piercing sensation. It hovered between pure pain and pure pleasure. Instinctively he clenched and everything intensified tenfold. He whimpered softly.

As Cullen familiarized himself to the new sensations, the darkness that the man thought he had shoved down returned with vengeance.

He could not stop as he thought, _Do you honestly think you deserve to be this happy?_

Trying not to make any other sensual sound escape his open mouth, Cullen answered in his head, _This is for Tharin, not me_.

But his mind would not let it go. It immediately responded, _But it is Tharin pleasuring you, not the other way around_. _In fact, you are enjoying this far too much_.

It was impossible for Cullen to deny. He _was_ enjoying this too much. He could barely halt himself from crying out in a wail of pleasure each time the young man’s fingers reached deep inside.

The darkness condemned Cullen. It consumed his mind as he asked himself, _You have all but forgotten about the people you’ve wronged, haven’t you?_

Not only did his mind regurgitate things he saw at Kinloch Hold and in Kirkwall, but it also combined the memories to create even more grotesque images. Everything felt so real, but there was no way for Cullen to differentiate the truths from the falsehoods.

Cullen saw himself burying a sword deep into the heart of a mage who failed her Harrowing. She still looked human, not an abomination. Yet it was his job to neutralize her. And so, he did without a sliver of remorse. It mattered little that he had been holding the torch for her for months prior.

Once again, Cullen saw himself stabbing Kyre. Tharin held onto the mage with a blank face. Blood spurted out and coated his hands, but it was blue. It was all blue. He could not treat mages like people because they were not people.

And Cullen saw Kirkwall imploding from within. Mages and templars fought in the streets, ordinary people were caught in crossfires, and homes burned down with their families in them. Cullen witnessed himself standing on the steps of the Chantry, still intact, as he surveyed everything with phenomenal disinterest. The Knight-Captain could not care less about the dying citizens of Kirkwall if he tried. The only thing he cared was how to get away with rendering all mages tranquil.

Sister Leliana was not entirely correct. Cullen was a damaged good, true. But it went beyond that. He a brute, a thug, someone who brought the ruination upon himself. He did not deserve happiness, whatever form it may take.

Then what did he actually deserve?

Suddenly, Cullen saw the things from the Ferelden Circle that he had pretended to forget for almost a decade.

Those gray… creatures violated him with their horrendous appendages. His most intimate spot felt unendurably hot. It was stretched beyond its limit and was tearing. He sobbed. He cried ugly tears that a templar should never display to demons and abominations.

Through those tears he also had to fight to keep breathing. His mouth was abused as well, and every time it was emptied of the offending material rammed in there, he gulped the foul stench of the Fade and tasted the ferrous tang of flowing blood.

 _Not real, not real, not real_. Cullen told himself over and over as he felt his body freeze.

These flashbacks were even more intense than the previous visions, and they wholly devoured his mind. All he could see were the monstrous beings surrounding him on all sides.

Flashes of those gray things spreading his legs apart, exposing his privates to humiliate. Flashes of them taking him as he hysterically obsecrated to be put out of his misery. Flashes of them defiling him until he could no longer believe he would ever recover fully…

They went on and on, but for how long, Cullen could not tell. And he accepted that he deserved no less.

“Cullen? You have to relax…” Cullen heard Tharin out of the blue, but the voice rang like the young man was underwater. No, Cullen was underwater. It genuinely felt like he was drowning, and no amount of kissing could have saved him. In fact, kissing Tharin felt like betrayal to those he had forsaken. Who was he to ask to be comforted? His heart kept speeding up with no letup.

There was not a shred of pleasure left in Cullen. His forearms and calves ached as his all too brittle body seized and his vile brain ran amok.

As the hallucination-like flashbacks slowly subsided like a muddy, foamy tide ebbing back to the vast ocean, Cullen was left behind like a drowned victim on the beach. He belatedly realized that he was no longer on all fours but flat on his stomach. His cock had gone flaccid ages ago. His hands were tightly wound in fists and his exposed skin felt clammy.

Tharin had left him alone for some time, sitting with his legs crossed and no doubt closely observing him with concern in his eyes. A fresh wave of anxiety hit Cullen.

He had one job. He had one job tonight, to pleasure Tharin, and he decidedly failed. It was easy to let the viscid oppressiveness of this new guilt take over his frazzled brain. Actually, it was preferable and even pleasurable. Cullen relished as the guilt swooped down with its talons bared and ripped him apart.

Surely, the new guilt about tonight’s failure was lighter and much more bearable than the old one from his templar days. Surely, the new guilt was better than the flashbacks of his violation. Cullen convinced himself as he rolled to his side away from Tharin, savoring the sweet pain derived from willful dereliction of his duty, and hid his face on a pillow. The thick pillow cover overheated his face rapidly, which was just as well. As the sweat from fear evaporated off his bare body, Cullen felt cold.

***

Tharin watched with trepidation at the rapid change in Cullen’s body language. One minute they were enjoying themselves, as he readied his blond lover for intercourse; the next, Cullen seemed to be arrested in place. With fear or anger, or something else entirely, the young man could not exactly delineate, as much as he would have wished to.

The Commander’s body was no longer lithe and responsive to his touches. Cullen was now lying flat on his stomach and all the muscles in his body seemed to stand out as they erratically spasmed. In fact, Tharin was afraid of hurting the man, so he stopped massaging the entrance and retracted his hand away. He would have liked to see Cullen’s facial expression, but something in him warned him not to move.

The Commander faced away from Tharin, his handsome face now single-mindedly concealed by a pillow. There was no sound escaping.

The spasms seemed to transpose into plain shivering. No wonder, the temperature outside had to be below freezing, and even the inside could not be described as warm. And they were both completely nude. Tharin moved to carefully drape the velveteen comforter over Cullen’s body. He winced as his movement made the bed squeak. He would have liked to be a little more suave, more subdued with his movements, but it was not to be.

Tharin furrowed his brows as he kept his watch over Cullen. What was he supposed to do? How can he make things better when he barely understood what was happening? All he could tell was that Cullen was distressed, but for what reason he could not discern.

Had he done something to upset Cullen? Was it about what happened to the former templar at the hands of demons at Kinloch Hold? If so, he may worsen the situation by prompting a response from the man. So Tharin dared not reach out. He sat rooted in his spot on the bed for the longest time, watching for any sign of change in Cullen. The silence kept stretching, and Tharin only heard the shallow breathing emanating from the Commander like ghostly wraiths.

Eventually, the silence itself became so ponderous as to be intolerable, and Tharin was forced into action.

“Could I… May I…?” asked the young man hesitantly as he warily lay down next to Cullen. With his head buried in the pillow still, the man nodded.

Feeling apprehensive about reaching out even with permission, Tharin took his time and watched Cullen’s muscular back expand and contract with each hasty breath. The alabaster skin looked soft, though it was dotted with moles of various sizes. His spine cut a deep groove in the middle, and fine lines on each side of the divide artfully charted a map of strength. Though strength wasn’t the word to describe the Commander’s aura then.

It wasn’t obvious before, but along with the moles, the back was filled with small, elongated scars. The shiny, unnerving leftovers of blades and magical bursts the man fought off in past battles, no doubt.

Healers must have tended to the wounds since the scars were too easy to miss, which the young man did earlier when the two were entangled in feverish desire. But now that Tharin knew they were there, he could not unsee them. They stared at the young man and challenged him to solve the riddle that was Cullen Rutherford.

Hasmal was a relatively peaceful Circle and Tharin had no direct experience with homicidal violence before Kyr’s death. But Cullen, a novitiate in Ferelden and the Knight-Captain in Kirkwall, must have endured and survived many brutal clashes. Now that Tharin was no stranger to field combats, he felt like he understood the Commander a little better. But not enough to make the man feel miraculously all better.

The intense memories of his own past battles led Tharin to that night in the Hinterlands when Cullen came back from patrol and touched his back. The gentle touch transferred much appreciated warmth, and he wanted to do the same for the Commander. At last, he reached out and laid his palm flat against Cullen’s back.

“It’s all right, Cullen. I am here,” murmured Tharin tenderly.

But Cullen remained doggedly silent. The young man’s touch fell woefully short of aiding the man. What else could he do? What could he do to fix this impossible situation?

Suddenly, Tharin began to hum a tune he had heard at Flissa’s tavern many a night. He did not even recognize he was humming for a few seconds, but it flowed out of him like an old habit. Perhaps Cullen would find some solace in a dulcet song with light, graceful, and steady notes. And humming wasn’t as difficult as actual singing, which the young man knew he had no talent for.

When Tharin was done with that song, he began to hum another. And another. He hummed leisurely ripples upon a wide, billowing river as he caressed Cullen’s trapezius in the gentlest manner possible.

It seemed to be working. Cullen’s body softened and the hands that held the pillow loosened. That long stretch of time when no words were uttered became less stifling. The two men lay there for a while, enjoying the hard-won serenity.

But that serenity was inevitably to be lost. All of a sudden, Cullen turned over and faced Tharin. With a determined look, the man declared, “W-we should… finish. I want to finish… what we started.” He tried to extend his right hand on the young man’s groin.

The Commander’s hand grazed upon Tharin’s soft member. For a split second, the Herald felt the new desire spread throughout him like ivy creeping up the wall but fought it off. While he would have loved to be with Cullen, that was obviously not what the man needed. The young man, therefore, gently pushed the hand away and admonished in a soothing tone, “No, Cullen. I am not interested in that anymore. I just… I would like to hold you, if that is okay.”

Cullen’s serious face, already so painfully devoid of sensuous desire, darkened in obvious shame. The man’s jaw clenched, and the scarred lips pursed. After a moment of consideration, he seemed to give in. The Commander withdrew his hovering hand and nodded feebly.

Tharin finally joined the man under the cover and wrapped his arms around him. Their eyes met and Tharin saw in the amber eyes softhearted devotion overshadowed by a heartache.

The young man, for the first time since the unexpected turn, felt like he knew what to do. He reached up and placed a soft peck on the Commander’s forehead. He whispered, “My wonderful, strong, noble knight.”

“I lo…” Cullen stopped in the middle, but Tharin could guess what the unfinished sentence implied. The Herald’s heart felt so full that it could have burst open. Tharin placed another little kiss on Cullen’s bestubbled cheek as the man stressed, “I feel better. I’m not lying.”

“Humor me, then,” chuckled the young man good-naturedly. He made sure to slacken the embrace enough that Cullen would not feel smothered, but close enough that the man would feel safe.

And it was perchance the newfound feeling of security that gave the Commander enough courage, because the next moment he closed the distance and buried his face in the Herald’s wide chest. The young man let forth a small, happy emanation and tightened the embrace.

Tharin felt Cullen’s powerful arms wrap around him as well, squeezing him just enough to make him feel wanted, adored. The two men stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity.

It occurred to Tharin that Cullen needed him as much as he needed Cullen, maybe even more. And that recognition made his heart thud heavily as though it were made of metal. A hot mass threatened to rise from his throat, but he caught it just in time.

“Cullen, I… I will always be there for you,” susurrated Tharin with a breaking voice.

To this unwarranted promise, Cullen only said, “I know.” But the young man knew that it contained multitudes of emotions that could not be adequately expressed at that moment. To limn this reply as lacking would have been an understatement, but it was assumably the best that Cullen could do. He repeated, “I know.”

Tharin could hear their heartbeats echo in synchroneity. That incidental concurrence was unanticipated and wonderful, enough to make Tharin pray to the Maker that he was not sure he believed in. He prayed that this peace would last for just a little while more. Just for a moment longer, before they had to face the world again.

***

While they held onto each other, Tharin spoke about nothing and everything in an impossibly low tone. The books he had been reading, the semi-personal discussions he had with the Inner Circle, and the things he noticed changing as the spring deepened across the land, both at and away from Haven. Things that had nothing to do with what Cullen failed to do that night, but everything that somehow made Cullen feel like he was in safe hands.

But the unplanned physical exertion on top of the daily training and the Inquisition business must have been too much even for a fit man in his prime. He kept drifting in and out, talking in an endless, meandrous stream of consciousness that eventually became more a dreamy soliloquy than a dialogue. Cullen tenderly stroked the ebon hair with his left hand until the young man fell asleep.

The unspoiled innocence weighed down the Commander’s right arm comfortably and gifted him with exquisite agony. As Tharin’s steady breathing tickled the tip of his nose, Cullen contemplated what the young man meant to him.

The Herald of Andraste… No, Haretharin Trevelyan was a gift to him from the Maker. A gift that could rescue him from the darkness and the nightmares. At least, that’s what he wanted to believe at first. But luckily, Leliana enlightened him before it was too late. He did not deserve such a gift. He was only to act as a vessel to carry out the will of the Inquisition, the will of the Maker.

Even so, he was having a hard time ignoring his own emotions. A vessel he may be, but a vessel with all too human feelings he was. Cullen was never the one to mull over what he was feeling or give a name to its content, but it was certain that he was grieving now.

Tharin was the only person in this world who knew all the truths about him. Not only that, but he was also the only one who accepted the Commander without judgment. The only one who would affirm Cullen’s humanity without reservation despite his broken mind and dirtied soul. A man who could have loved Cullen. Tharin was a light in an otherwise dark world that he resided in, and he loved the light. Never once did he say that phrase in jest. He meant it every single time.

And the Commander was about to lie and deliberately hurt his love. Because he was not good enough for the young man, as tonight’s catastrophe had amply demonstrated. And because he was given an order to stand on the sidelines and let the bond most dear to him crumble from the weight of his duties and sins. It had to be enough that he was doing this to set the young man on the right path. The one that inexorably led away from him.

Some desperate part of him was glad, however, because Tharin would never forget Cullen for the indelible pain he was about to unleash. Surely, he would be remembered. And despite the intrinsic selfishness in such expectation, Cullen was not too scrupulous to reprimand himself for the sad satisfaction that would follow in the aftermath of the breakup. Any chance to be more than a passing milestone, to be more than an unremarkable blip in this man’s eventful and no doubt fruitful life, he wanted to seize.

He gently laid his lips on the edge of Tharin’s forehead near the hairline and left them there for a long time. He deeply inhaled the young man’s scent. Fresh, masculine sweat that smelled faintly of tangy citrus with a trace aroma of sweet lilac from the sheets, as if the young warrior had raced across the verdant fields of Orlais and brought back a bouquet just for him. Individually they were ordinary enough, yet the resulting concoction was anything but trite. It bewitched him body and soul.

Cullen scrambled to store this precious kernel of olfactory memory as his heart squeezed. In between hitched breaths, he whispered helplessly, “I love you… I love you so much… I’m so sorry.” After running his hand over the beginning of raven stubble on the sleeping man, he finished with a hopeful plea, “Don’t forgive me.”

Tharin stirred, turning to his back, but did not awake. Cullen knew from personal experience that templars were used to sharing quarters with others. He was appreciative that an entrenched tradition of the Templar Order kept the young man sleeping, since he would not have been able to proficiently explain away his face then. Unmitigated frowns and incarnadined eyes. Tharin would undoubtedly have questioned Cullen if he were to wake up.

Slowly and deliberately, Cullen pulled his arm free. Still afraid of disturbing the young man’s sleep, he agilely jumped off the bed and noiselessly put on the smallclothes that had been discarded during the moment of passion. The rest of his body was left uncovered and he was naturally drawn to the heat.

Now turned away from Tharin, the Commander settled down on the ground next to the fireplace. The last of the night’s timber was burning and the flame wavered as it resisted the looming death. He hugged his knees and stared until the fire was naught but a puff of smoke. Tears came again. He let them flow.

Oh, but the weeping. Cullen couldn’t bear to think his moment of weakness might stir the young man awake. He squeezed his eyes shut forcefully and covered his mouth. When it did nothing in the way of stopping the plaintive sounds from escaping, he bit down hard on the fleshy base of his left thumb until they passed. The toothmark eventually turned to a shiny bruise that stood out unnervingly in the approaching morning light.

Thus was he, a man who all of a sudden found himself blessed with much to lose, peering into tomorrow as something dark and unknowable stared back.

***

Something was off. An indescribable sense of unease percolated into Tharin’s foggy brain as soon as his eyes opened. The primal instinct in him was on high alert, and like a tormented oracle it shrieked in distance.

As the fog dissipated from his mind, he saw a shadowed figure sitting on the bed. Cullen was fully clothed, facing away. He thought that even the man’s turned back was captivating.

But it wasn’t the same back he was used to seeing. Maybe because they had found their way into places that were the most intimate and the most private of each other, it looked different to him. It looked better, prompting even more fondness in him.

The young man rubbed his eyes and yawned. A wide smile invaded his lips in the face of the ghostlike disquiet, and he welcomed the incursion. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” reciprocated the Commander without turning.

The defeated freeze that lingered after sunrise permeated the skin more freely than its sterner nightly manifestation could. The chill forced a reflexive shiver. Tharin pulled the velveteen cover over his unclothed body and leapt at the other man. He hung his jaw on Cullen’s shoulder and roughly scraped the grains of his bristles on the man’s neck, intent on instigating a reaction.

But his wicked titter hung in the cold air alone. An agonizing quiet lingered for too long and provoked the feeling of impending doom. It merged with the nagging anxiety that had been scarcely pacified and swelled to an outright dread. He vainly tried to push down on it by enveloping the Commander in a bear hug and planting a kiss on the cool skin.

Cullen was here, here with him. Cullen was with him. Cullen and him.

Still, the man remained terrifyingly motionless. When he did speak, his voice sounded oddly flat. “We need to talk.”

“That sounds rather ominous.” Though Tharin managed to sound cheerful, he could hear the apprehension leaking into his own voice. It had to be about what happened yesterday, how Cullen reacted. Like a child holding onto a ratty blanket for comfort, the young man held on, waiting.

With a soft sigh the Commander started, “It’s simple. The Inquisition is the cause I swore my allegiance to, and I cannot let personal matters interfere with its operation.”

A much appreciated pause followed, as Tharin could hardly comprehend what was being said let alone what was happening. It was not at all what he expected.

But soon he was hit by a wall of irrevocable words, solemn and heavy, like a chant. “It’s come to my attention that I’ve been neglectful of my duties as the Commander. My main priority must be to prepare our soldiers for the eventual expedition to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. So I shan’t be spending time with you from now on. I will assign one of our templars to train with you in my stead, and I will no longer join you for missions that would take me away from Haven.”

The end. Silence.

The young man let go of Cullen’s shoulders and fell back, feeling weak. He grabbed the crumpled smalls next to him and struggled to put them on. He then arduously crawled to the Commander’s side of the bed and kneeled at the edge before asking in a trembling voice, “What are you saying?”

And still the man refused to look at Tharin. The back that looked so inviting only a moment ago now looked so forbidding.

“I was mistaken. I’ve confused lust with… love. So, I don’t think it would be wise for us to keep pursuing this… affair any further. Lest it starts to negatively affect our work even more.”

This was not the Commander being too cautious or bashful. There was now an air of resigned certitude about him that Tharin couldn’t put off anymore.

The young man’s hands began shaking so he balled them into fists. They continued to shake regardless. He felt his mouth curling down to summon tears, but to his ephemeral relief they didn’t come. Instead, a violent surge of words swept Tharin and Cullen off their feet.

“Cullen, have I done something… anything to upset you? If there is, I apologize. Is this because of what happened at the war room meeting? I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I only wanted to help. I beg you, please, tell me. Am I that much of a hindrance to your work? I am sorry. I am sorry, I know how much the Inquisition means to you and I am truly, truly sorry if I kept you from doing your best… I will do better. Tell me how I can do better. Yell at me all you want for being an annoyance, but please don’t say we can’t be together.”

Tharin wondered if this was about the last night’s debacle, but some part of him ordered him not to bring it up. The man’s reaction seemed even more intimate than the act of intercourse itself, and the young man dared not invoke it. Perhaps the reaction was from something he had done. Yes, he must have done something wrong.

The young man swallowed hard and considered what to say. Once the questions about the last night’s reaction abated, he articulated the next thought that popped into his mind, “Is this because I couldn’t say I love you back?”

That question made Cullen jolt and Tharin thought he had inadvertently reached the root of the problem. What a joy! A promise of salvation.

And yet it was not to be.

“You haven’t done anything to upset me. I simply think this is the right thing to do.”

The young man was in freefall and Cullen, who he believed was his, was nowhere to be found. “It’s totally all right if you were mistaken. I understand if what you feel is just lust. But Cullen, I need you. Please.” There was no glory, no pride, and certainly no dignity. Tharin, a fearless templar warrior and the Inquisition’s great white hope, was on his knees pleading for mercy.

Nonetheless, the pitiable entreaty was met with another crushing silence. Cullen, or rather his back, was once again still, his true intent obscured by an impermeable barrier of clothes and lukewarm flesh.

Tharin let his head drop and intoned desperately, “I-I can’t… I don’t believe you would give up on us so easily. Tell me why you are doing this.”

“You already know the reason.”

Here they were, at the point of no return. The young man couldn’t quite believe it, so he stubbornly refused to digest what the truncated announcement implied. “No, I don’t know the reason, because I don’t accept the reason you gave me. We can resolve whatever issue we have regarding your work. That isn’t it. What is making you do this?”

With that, Cullen finally turned to face Tharin. Was it possible for gold to lose its sheen? His ochre eyes were cloudy, deflecting the light. His expression was alarmingly indiscernible. Cullen took a deep breath and his chest puffed up, as though to ready a call for charge. But instead of a shout came the sharpened daggers the young man didn’t know the Commander had in him.

“Fine. You want the truth? The truth is, the very idea of us being together nauseates me now.” Cullen glared with hatred seething in his eyes, the source of which Tharin couldn’t even begin to try to pinpoint. That hatred was more than he could endure. He shut his eyes and finally let the tears fall.

“I will tell you why I completely froze up last night. It is because everything you did to me was so disgusting that it brought me right back to the demons of the Circle Tower. For ten years I tried to forget, and you managed to undo the good work I’ve done in one evening.

A lightning struck Tharin and his eyes flew open. “Oh, Maker… Cullen… I’m so sorry. I did a terrible thing to you. I should’ve insisted we keep to the plan and take things slower. I wanted you to feel valued, to feel safe, not… this. What can I do to fix this? What can I do to deserve your forgiveness?”

But his lame attempt at amends was greeted with a venomous sneer. “You don’t get it, do you? It is perfectly clear to me now that I am not what you are. All I’ve wanted since the Circle broke me was to start a family, have children of my own. You can’t give me any of that, can you? On top of being whatever you are, you’re useless too.”

Tharin knew he sounded pathetic as he countered, “You can’t… shame me for being what I am. It’s just not fair. And… I didn’t know you wanted all that. It’s not true, what you said. I’m not… useless.”

Cullen ruthlessly continued, “Everything I did with you was because of some stupid curiosity, nothing more than a momentary lapse of judgment. I wanted to see how I would like it with another man, but I just felt like a cheap whore being used for your pleasure.”

Tharin felt like he was watching his own heart being ripped out and stomped on by Cullen. What’s more, the man seemed to be doing it as a retaliation of some sort. How could the young man’s action have been so horrendous as to provoke this kind of response? He combed through his brain for any kind of foreknowledge, but nothing came. He bit his lips, shook his head, and implored pitifully, “Stop this… Just stop… Please.”

But there was to be no rest, no break from Cullen’s hateful ranting. “I let you defile me like those demons did, and it is repulsive… Everything about you is repulsive to me. I can’t stand you.” Cullen stood up with his arms securely crossed and his back once again turned and stiffened. “I’m done with you.”

It was over. The young man had known before, but it was only then he finally accepted it. A strange sense of calm garroted the fervent desire to salvage the relationship. Strange because it was able to easily squelch an emotion that seemed so unrelenting, as easily as snapping a nug’s neck.

Tharin could not believe the evenness of his own voice with everything that rumbled within him. All seemed to change for him in that instant. He let the last drop of tears fall and took a deep breath. He felt defiant and suddenly realized that he quite liked being stubbornly defiant.

“So that’s it then. I see. You might justifiably have thought and felt that way, and I respect that. But my feelings for you are genuine and you don’t have the right to trample over them as if they amount to nothing.”

The Herald could scarcely suppress the vitriol, but he somehow managed. He didn’t want to be savage in front of the Commander and embarrass himself further. “Leave. Right now. I don’t want to see you.”

Unceremonious footsteps, a shrill creak, and a weighty thud of the front door. Cullen was gone. There was no “I’m sorry” and not even a perfunctory “goodbye.” Apparently, Tharin wasn’t even worth that. With his tightly clenched left hand the young man repeatedly punched his thigh. The Anchor fizzed. His wide shoulders convulsed violently.

***

The sky was excruciatingly blue up above, belying his blackened heart.

As he stumbled away, Cullen ruminated on how much the young man seemed to have suffered, but he was also having a hard time reconciling it with his assumption that he was more invested in their relationship. Anyone watching them would argue it was the other way around.

It really did not matter though, because this chapter of his and Tharin’s life was closed for good. It had to be, for the sake of the Inquisition and for the Herald’s future.

The Commander’s head hurt, and his ears started ringing. Some lyrium would hit the spot right now. He broke Tharin’s heart so completely and lost a companion and a friend in less than a quarter hour, not even enough time for a tea break. A lifetime’s worth of trust and love, a lifetime’s worth of generosities and possibilities, gone in the blink of an eye.

The ringing noise became deafening.

He thought bitterly that Leliana would be pleased. At least one person in the Inquisition would be happy today. Perhaps she would cackle as she read his message, maybe even turn into a raven and fly away in unconstrained delight.

As soon as Cullen reached his tent, he scrawled a short note to the Spymaster – _It’s done. The Herald is yours_. Once he handed a courier the message, he immediately went out to train his soldiers. After all, that was one of the excuses he gave to Tharin, was it not? That the Inquisition needed his attention wholly.

Indeed, there was always more to be done and he was glad for it. Duties were like lyrium, all-consuming and all too easy to become addicted. And duties got him through that day in one piece.

Just like lyrium, however, duties could distract the man only for so long. The mind inevitably wandered, and the demons came out to play.

That night, Cullen cried like never before. What a difference three days made. He could remember himself lying in the very same cot, filled with joy and anticipation for the future he wanted to build with Tharin.

Now he was curled into a ball, silently cursing the Maker for letting him survive Kinloch and Kirkwall. His life was torturing him, and he did not see any reason why he should still be alive. Only the sweet memory of his heart going pitter-patter at Tharin’s presence, and the knowledge of the debt he owed to the Inquisition and the Circle mages assuaged him.

He prayed for sleep. When it failed to come, he then prayed for his nightmares to snatch him away from the unbearableness of corporeal existence. For once, they did not come.

***

In a life that isn’t boringly peaceful or cut too short by some unmentionable tragedy, there are a number of longest days when everything from the highest place in the heavens to the lowest point of the earth seems to disintegrate. Figuratively at least, if not literally. For Tharin, today was one of those longest days he had experienced in a good while.

All day he went through the motions, relying on the comforting knowledge that nothing required his full attention and that he didn’t have to talk to the Commander. When there were no more mundane Inquisition responsibilities to keep his mind occupied, the young man trudged to the Singing Maiden and drank himself to a stupor.

Sitting at the table by the window, Tharin saw Cullen everywhere and tried to hate the man. But no matter how much effort he expended, no matter how much he reminded himself of the despicable things the Commander said, he found himself simply unable to hate. In fact, he kept arriving at the conclusion that he missed Cullen awfully.

At least the cheap booze Flissa supplied dulled his mind and quieted all the questions: was Cullen truly disgusted by what he was? Was what he did so bad that it reminded the man of his worst nightmare? What could he have done differently? Is there anything he could do for forgiveness from Cullen? And so on.

He had been given a reprieve. He would wait until later to answer them.

Sera started singing one of her bawdy favorites, goaded by Varric who probably just wanted to see the girl scandalize Vivienne. Tharin joined in, shouting at the top of his lungs in a hopeless attempt to drown out the anguish in his heart.

Afterwards, Tharin let his drunk body guide him home. But instead of reaching his cabin, his legs gave out midway and he slumped under another plum tree. From the cold, wet ground he watched as miniscule pink blossoms descended upon his face. His memory failed him after that. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

Spring had been well on its way for months. Yet the Frostbacks were entirely too inhospitable for innocent blooms of the season. The wind and the ice were all too jealous of their liveliness and did their best to strike them down. One by one, the petals wilted, and the bright blossoms quietly dissolved into nothingness, their resistance futile and their evanescence rendered all the more wretched for it. Smothered by the void that betrayed no sound, no color, and no fragrance. Simply, gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! This marks the end of Part I: Spring. Part II: Summer begins with the next chapter, which will be posted **two weeks** from today on **Sunday, February 7**.
> 
> Next up, Cassandra intervenes and a new person shows up.
> 
> I started Tumblr! I will regularly update with news of _Honor and Will_ as well as a new Tharin/Cullen AU fic that is currently WIP. Find and follow me at https://isk4649.tumblr.com
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	11. Cassandra Queries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more unto the breach, dear friends!

**PART II: SUMMER**

The little flecks of ember flying through the night air made Cullen think of his hometown, of his cozy little pond where only fireflies and solitude welcomed him.

Normally, the Commander preferred his own company, partly because he did not want to force his soldiers to socialize with him. Hanging around hoping for crumbs of friendship from those he was supposed to train and harden would have been pathetic. But since the breakup a month before, he started to linger around the campfire at night. He now found it next to impossible to spend long hours alone with his thoughts.

Yet, it did not mean that he desired to be an active participant in whatever gossip or ribald tale that was being swapped around the campfire. He was content to sit in silence and let the noise of people enjoying themselves cuddle up to him like a down comforter as he spaced out.

Indeed, Cullen could afford to be detached from reality for a few minutes before he headed to bed. To think about nothing, just welcome silence in his head. His eyes gradually lost focus and the fire in front of him blurred into a mass of bright colors dancing brokenly – red, orange, yellow, white. His ears closed down, conversations around him melting into indistinguishable notes of indiscriminate sounds.

Just him and his uninterrupted tranquility surrounded by the familiar warmth of the nugatory fireside chats.

Unfortunately for the Commander, summery Honnleath this was not, and a sharp gust drew him out of his blissful quietude. He shivered and drew his body close.

“Here, thought you could use something hot.”

Cullen looked up to find a camping mug filled to the brim with elfroot tea hovering midair. Cassandra was already sipping from her own mug and the Commander felt a bizarre sense that he’d seen this happen before for some unknown reason.

When he accepted the tea and thanked her, the Seeker merely mumbled inaudibly and sat down next to him.

“We should’ve picked another place with a better climate as our base. It’s the middle of Justinian and we are still huddled around a campfire.”

The Commander snorted. It was rare to hear Cassandra reveal her opinion about anything other than the status of current missions, and he suspected it was because she wanted to be extra friendly. The rumor must have reached her ears.

And true to his expectation, he heard a question about his relationship with Tharin when Cassandra spoke next.

“I’ve heard… things. Is it true, about you and the Herald?”

 _Well, time to poke at the barely healed wound_ , Cullen supposed. It had been just shy of a month since the breakup. During that time, the Herald had been completely occupied with tracking down rebel mages and templars. While Tharin zipped across Thedas, rushing from Val Royeaux to Redcliffe, Cullen was comfortably perched at Haven, concentrating on getting the warriors ready.

The distance forced upon them meant the young man and the Commander could easily avoid what would have been overwrought conversations about what happened. Yet he knew he couldn’t avoid them forever. Especially since the Seeker decided to ask him.

Cullen sipped from his mug in an effort to delay, but eventually answered her inquiry honestly. “It is true. But we’ve since parted ways.” He was not sure what Cassandra wanted to hear, and so hesitated before adding, “I give you my word: it will not affect my work, nor will it make me fall back on lyrium.”

The Seeker’s face contorted. She looked… concerned. “Cullen, I have no doubt that your work will continue to be excellent and that you will overcome lyrium. I only wanted to make sure that you were happy, but… it seems I’ve come too late.”

“So you didn’t hear it from Leliana?”

Her worried expression now showed a streak of confusion. “How does she know?”

It was an absurd question. They were talking about Leliana, the Nightingale of the Imperial Court, the Left Hand of the Divine, and easily the most informed person alive. “How would she not know?”

One side of the woman’s lips curled up slightly in muted amusement. “Fair point.” Her face returned to its normal somber expression soon after as she started again. “I will not ask what happened. I just want to make sure you are all right.”

“What do you care?” Cullen regretted sounding harsher than he had intended, but it did mirror his thoughts. These days it was hard for the Commander to believe that anyone could spare a thought for his welfare. Not when he proved himself to be so utterly incapable of paying back kindness and genuine affection with anything other than a heartbreak. When he turned to check Cassandra’s reaction, he was surprised to see the Seeker flushed.

“Because… you are important to me.”

“Cassandra…”

“I was glad you had someone you can talk to. I’ve heard enough witness accounts and read enough reports to know you’ve experienced many difficulties in the Order and… It made sense to me that you two would find each other.”

Cullen sniffed, but hoped belatedly he did not sound impudent. “Are you saying the Herald and I were fated to be together?”

Cassandra frowned and shook her head unhurriedly. “Don’t be glib. The Herald is a compassionate man and a good listener. And he understands firsthand the sacrifices one pays to be part of the templars. I only meant it would be natural for you to be drawn to him.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. I’ve hashed everything.” This was the first instance Cullen actually voiced his thoughts on how the courtship ended before it even began. To be more precise, how the courtship was ended by him. His own voice sounded foreign.

The Seeker, sweet and caring when she wanted to be, pushed on gently. “Tell me. Why do you think you’ve messed it up?”

“There really isn’t much to tell. Suffice it to say I threw away the most precious gift I’ve been given in my entire life because… Because I was afraid and because I have obligations.”

The woman seemed to be immersed in her thoughts until she looked to Cullen. “Were you afraid because the Herald is a man and you’re also a… man?”

“No, Cassandra, it’s not that.” Despite his confident answer, an unshakeable doubt sat heavy in the guts. “At least I thought I wasn’t bothered by that aspect of our courtship.”

Maybe he did have some reservations. After all, it was the first thought he had when the Spymaster asked him to break up. And out of all the possible excuses he could have given, he chose to pretend to be repulsed by their relationship when he was following through with it.

Maybe Cullen had actually convinced himself that the world would look down on him and brand him as a deviant for being with someone of the same gender.

“Then I don’t understand. What’s the problem?” The Seeker seemed to deflate as she quietly added, “Apologies. Here I am pushing you for more details when I said I wouldn’t.”

The Commander was feeling suddenly fatigued. He sighed and fixed his gaze on the vortex of cloudy liquid in his mug. Throw in some magically conjured fluorescent lights and it would be an exact replica of the Breach. “I’ve been told that my… fraternizing with the Herald was getting in the way of the Inquisition’s mission. So, I ended it.”

Looking aghast, Cassandra exclaimed, “Who told you that?”

“It’s not important.”

“Fine. Do you still have feelings for the Herald?”

The Commander could not lie, even though he wanted to. “Yes.”

“Do you… love him?”

The dreaded word brought the rapid firing of questions and answers to an abrupt halt. Cullen was not sure of anything anymore. He thought he was sure in his feelings for Tharin, but was he ever in love if he could end everything so easily? It was definitely not helpful that he had no other relevant experiences to compare it to. Life’s uncertainty, as always, remained infuriatingly impregnable.

The Seeker’s reflective voice cut through the silence. “You must go to him.”

In spite of the seemingly endless sequence of tough questions parading through his head, the way she said it made Cullen chuckle. He turned away from his mug and looked at Cassandra’s olive brown eyes. They were heavy with unbridled sincerity. “I didn’t know you were a hopeless romantic, Seeker.”

Cassandra’s face dropped and she sputtered. Most unlikely of her, indeed. “T-that’s outrageous. I-I… I can think whatever I want without being accused of that.” The woman groaned exasperatedly and rested her chin on the fist of her right hand. Then she pouted.

There was an attractive quality to an annoyed Cassandra. Cullen watched her silently as the woman looked away in quiet resentment. Why hadn’t he ever noticed how handsome she was before? In another life, in which he was not a templar and she was not a Seeker, they could have been together. In another life, he would not have to hold his breaking heart together with all his might.

In another life, the world would not be ending. And Tharin could be happy with his mage love.

Cullen conceded without making a further fuss, “You are not a romantic. I am sorry I accused you of being one.”

Still facing away, the Seeker curtly replied, “Thank you.”

With the corners of his lips upturned in a strangely wistful longing, Cullen thought about what drove him here. It was fear.

His fear for Tharin’s future and the Inquisition’s survival was real, Cullen could not deny it. In fact, that fear was persuasive enough to lead him down the path of loss and heartache.

Now that he could step back and think more critically, however, he could see that both options came with their own pros and cons. He wanted to make the right choice, but which was it?

“I realize it doesn’t reflect very well on me, but I keep going back and forth. Sometimes I think I’ve made the worst mistake by breaking the Herald’s heart, but other times I feel like I made the right call. I can’t face him without being sure of myself.”

After a thoughtful pause, Cassandra lifted her head and spoke like she was talking to herself, “It’s better to have tried and regret than regret for not having tried.” It was a clichéd saying and he would have cringed at the banal sentimentality, but at this moment Cullen felt like it opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

Leliana’s logic was flawed. He was not Kyr and Tharin was not the same rookie templar from the Hasmal Circle; Leliana and Cullen were not the same, and Tharin was not the Warden. He also wanted to trust the young man to strike a balance between their courtship and the needs of the Inquisition. It would undoubtedly be difficult, he refused to fool himself, but not impossible. And he would be there to help, every step of the way.

The real question was, would Tharin even be willing to give him another chance?

When they broke up, Cullen had made sure Tharin would never want him back. He blamed the young man for the triggered memories of the Ferelden Circle and called what they had done nauseating. In fact, he called the young man repulsive. Cullen of course meant none of it, but he was smart enough to recognize that it would be a titan task to convince Tharin of that.

“Do you think I could repair the damage still?” The Commander hated that his voice sounded frail as he asked the question.

Blithely unaware of how the two men dissolved their relationship, the Seeker simply said, “I say you don’t know until you try. The Herald is coming back from Redcliffe tomorrow. Talk to him then.” Mysteriously, her optimism buoyed Cullen’s hope.

Cassandra waited before adding dreamily, “We don’t get many chances at romance in our lives, more so when you consider how many loves go unrequited. If you still have feelings for him and if there is even an infinitesimal possibility for you to win back his affection, then it’s your duty to try. Love is such a magnificent thing, Cullen, and we need more of it, not less, in these trying times. I’d hate to see you let it go without a fight.”

No matter what the Seeker thought of herself, she was a romantic. Cullen decided to reveal a few choice details as a thanks. “This was before I… well, just… before. The Herald said he likes me and is serious about us. He then ordered me to call him only by his name when we are alone.” Telling her was more humiliating than he’d predicted, but he soldiered on.

Cassandra sighed dramatically. “Andraste preserve me… You better not be doubting how he feels about you.” The Commander just chuckled and left it at that.

While the heat from the mug dissipated into the night, Cullen pushed back all the niggling thoughts and made up his mind. His heart fluttered at the conclusion reached. He threw the leftover tea into the fire and handed the mug back to Cassandra. “Thanks for the tea and the advice.” He promptly stood up and turned to leave.

“You’re welcome. Where are you going?”

“Back to my tent. I would rather fret about tomorrow in the comfort of my own cot.”

The Seeker’s fierce eyes arched in a smile. In a soft voice she said her goodnight.

“Sleep well, Commander.”

***

Among the tall stacks of books on his desk was _The Dialectics_ , slowly gathering dust on the exposed corners. Cullen was thankful that he had not gotten around to moving all of his library into the cabin.

He opened the pages to a chapter on literary Elvish phrases and found tissue papers within. Pressed between those delicate lavender-colored sheets was the plum blossom. It wasn’t the same one Tharin pulled out of his hair as they walked hand in hand, but it nevertheless reminded him of the young man. He had picked it up from the very spot after the breakup to memorialize their time together, to make sure that his heart continued to rend as a punishment to himself.

Cullen had expected to feel melancholic at its sight but only felt unrestrained anticipation. After staring at the flower and letting his heartbeats echo, he carefully closed the book and took a deep breath.

It would have been too nerve-racking to try talking to Tharin right after his return. So, Cullen sat down and wrote a short note asking the young man for a word in private.

If only every social interaction could be in epistolary form. Since he picked up reading in Kirkwall, writing had also become a familiar tool in expressing himself, though he rarely bothered. He knew he would be able to convey his thoughts and feelings to Tharin much better in a letter, but this, fixing what he had broken so wantonly, needed to be done in person.

***

The sky was clear and blue, not a single cloud in sight. Cullen hoped this was a good omen.

Having received a messenger raven from the Herald last evening informing them of the time of arrival, the advisors gathered at the gate at noon. Within several minutes they could see five figures on horseback approaching Haven on the horizon: the Herald, Blackwall, Varric, Solas, and another person. A mage from the look of a staff slung on his back, and an attractive-looking man at that.

He must have said something funny because Tharin and Varric were visibly guffawing. The laughter was still lingering in the air as the party dismounted and approached the welcoming committee. Cullen noticed how Tharin met the gazes from Leliana and Josephine but went out of the way to avoid his. It stung yet did not surprise him.

The young man turned to see if the mage was ready for introductions. Up close, Cullen thought this stranger was a sight to behold. His gait was confident and sure, his handsome face was accentuated by a meticulously groomed mustache, and his skin was shiny and smooth like the golden sand of the Western Approach.

The mage’s jet-black hair, which closely resembled Tharin’s in shade, was coiffed into a neat yet daring style so completely unlike Tharin’s. His robe was a fascinating combination of fine needlework and gems overlaid on clean spaces of wide fabrics.

He looked nothing like anyone at Haven and it was glorious. He was a creature that needed to be seen, a unique species unto himself. And as he thought these florid thoughts, Cullen was surprised at how alien he felt about himself. The last time he observed someone this closely was when he first met the Herald.

“Everyone, meet Dorian. He’s informed us of a group called the Venatori and–”

The swarthy man looked at the Herald with disapproving eyes and tut-tutted. “First impressions are so important, and I would hate mine to be marred by the talk of those imbeciles. Let us wait for the proper moment to horrify them with my tale of doom and gloom, shall we?”

Tharin’s cheeks turned even redder. The hulking warrior was a putty in the mage’s hands. “Right. Dorian is here to help us convince the Redcliffe mages to join us.”

The man bowed gracefully. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. The Herald and I already had this discussion, but no, I am not a magister. You can call me Altus, however, if you are ever in a particularly playful mood,” said the mage in a cut-glass accent. Cullen had never met anyone from Tevinter, but the intonation sounded pleasant to his ears.

When Josephine began to introduce herself in that animated tone of hers, Cullen noticed how the Herald was looking at Dorian like a snot-nosed child enraptured by a shiny new toy on the other side of the shop window. He could also see how Dorian kept stealing glances at the Herald, his eyes twinkling each time.

The Commander would be the first to admit that he was oblivious to most things, but he was observant when it concerned Tharin. It was clear that, alas, he was too late.

Cullen stiffly greeted the mage as he crumpled up the note into a tiny ball in his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Cullen is slightly enamored by Dorian, just a tiny bit. And yes, he is jealous of him. Both of these can be true. Because I said so.
> 
> Next up, a certain kind of future.
> 
> I started Tumblr! I will regularly update with news of Honor and Will as well as a new Tharin/Cullen AU fic that is currently WIP. Find and follow me at https://isk4649.tumblr.com
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	12. The Redcliffe Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I think some angst and whump befit today, don't you?
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING! Direct references to torture and rape.

The whole world was writhing in agony and at the center of it stood the twisted ruins of Redcliffe Castle. The air was thick with an acrid odor of sulfur and the sky was caliginous and green. Tharin had to suppress a gag at the thought of a vat of gluey pea soup he’d once eaten at the Circle canteen.

The Herald thought back to a few minutes before, when they were back in their own time and everything was not utterly broken. What did Magister Alexius mean? He said that Tharin was a mistake, that he should never have existed.

But the conditions Dorian and the Herald faced were definitely not conducive to idle contemplation about the words of a madman. While they were trying to find their way out of this bizarre future, they found Cassandra and Varric in their prison cells. The imprisoned were nonplussed but more than happy to join them in their quest to return to the past.

Soon after, the four of them charged into the interrogation chamber to find Leliana barely alive, chained to the ceiling. When her eyes focused on the Herald, however, some bestial force seemed to seize her entire body. She crossed her legs across the interrogator’s neck and squeezed until he stopped moving. And just like that, her tormentor crumpled to the floor like a paper doll.

Tharin quickly unchained Leliana from the ceiling and she rubbed her wrists in apparent pain. Though tempered by the horrendous state of his companions, the Herald explained with naïve hope in his voice, “If we get back to the present and stop Alexius, then you will never have to go through this.”

“And mages always wonder why people fear them,” Leliana spat curtly, directing her gaze at Dorian. “No one should have the power to travel through time.”

Dorian stepped forward. “The time magic is dangerous and unpredictable. Before the Breach, nothing we did–”

Leliana cut the Tevinter off. Her voice was steady, but there was a hint of wrath as she lashed out, “Enough! This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered! The whole world suffered! It was real!” She rolled her hands into tight fists and trembled.

Looking more than sorry, Dorian inquired in a subdued tone, “What happened while we were away?”

“Stop talking,” said Leliana flatly as she began to search for a weapon. Fortuitously, there was a bow and a bundle of arrows inside one of the storage boxes.

“I’m just asking for information.”

“No. You’re talking to fill silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear.”

“Leliana, it could help them,” Cassandra whispered softly.

The former Spymaster’s hands stilled for a second, only to busy themselves again. With a nearly imperceptible sigh, she muttered, “…Perhaps later.”

***

As his party grew, the Herald’s heart grew heavier. He was barely holding back a torrent of emotions when they ran into the last member of the Inquisition in the citadel.

It took the young warrior only a single blow to dispense of a Venatori guard dozing off at his post. After the guard tumbled to the floor with a deep gouge in his neck, the man strode inside the dungeon to find only one cell occupied.

When the prisoner heard Tharin come to a stop, he warily approached for a better look. His face betrayed many emotions, but astonishment was by far the most pronounced.

“Maker’s breath… It’s really you.”

Tharin’s eyes started stinging. He reached through the bars to take the man’s hand, only to have the prisoner jump out of his reach.

“Don’t! You mustn’t touch me. Red lyrium is growing inside me and it will spread to you as well.”

Tharin retracted his arm and instead studied the man carefully. His hair, so meticulously groomed before, was now long and disheveled. His stubble had grown into a full-on beard many moons ago, and it was now obscuring the lower half of his face. It was matted with dirt and whatever else he had been through, its golden hue dulled. White and gray streaked the muddied blond hair.

He had only filthy smalls on, and all over his gaunt body, formerly resplendent with muscles, were gashing wounds. It seemed that the Tevinter torturers of Redcliffe had a busy year. Like the other companions, his eyes were glowing red and a reddish haze surrounded his frame. His skin was pale and not just from the lack of sunlight.

When the prisoner felt Tharin’s eyes on his body, he attempted to hide the scars and gave a brittle smile that threatened to give out. “I feel better than I look, trust me.”

With those words, the Herald fell to his knees. His helmeted head loudly clunked against those metal bars and everyone in the dungeon could hear the stifled sobs.

The prisoner’s hand reached out but stopped just short of the young man’s face. It hung in the air helplessly. “Please don’t cry…”

“Cullen…”

“It’s all right.” The man immediately qualified, “We can fix this. It will be all right.”

Everyone, even Dorian who had been relying on gallows humor to get through this impossible situation, was at a loss for words. Finally, Varric intervened. “Don’t mean to interrupt the reunion, but we need to get you to the throne room. Why don’t I try to pick the lock and get Curly out. It will only take a second.” Dorian helpfully stepped forward and brought Tharin to his feet.

When the dwarf opened the cell, Cullen immediately put his hands in front of him before walking out. His eyes were focused on Tharin the entire time. He stayed well clear of the party as he approached the dead Venatori guard.

“Stay back.” The voice cracked, as if red lyrium was interfering with his speech. Yet Tharin somehow could tell it wasn’t just that.

The former Commander took off the armor and the sword from the corpse and armed himself.  
Even through the reddish haze, Tharin could see the renewed determination fill those golden eyes. Cullen intoned firmly, “You lead. I will follow.”

***

As the party walked the dark corridor illuminated by red lyrium deposits, Cassandra began cautiously, “Alexius’s master… The Venatori call him the Elder One. After you died, or we thought you died, we could not stop him from rising. Empress Celene was murdered. The army that swept in afterwards – it was a horde of demons. Nothing stopped them. Nothing.”

Leliana added begrudgingly but firmly, “Once you return, you must first stop Orlais’s civil war. It weakens the Empire and leaves an opening for the Venatori to attack and take over. That is the key to stopping the Elder One.”

After a heavy breath in and out, Tharin stopped and rasped, “I cannot leave you all behind in this madness.”

This madness. Indeed, the past year had been nothing but mad event after another. Cullen thought about what the companions had all endured. For him, the psychological torture could not compare to the ones he suffered at Kinloch Hold, but the physical torture was much worse. He was a plaything for the Venatori to use and abuse. Literally.

At first Cullen was treated relatively well, considering he was the Commander of a defeated army. After he surrendered at Haven, he was brought to the castle and was put in one of the guest chambers. The bed was comfortable, and the food was good. They even allowed him goblets of wine. Nobody bothered to interrogate him about the Inquisition or anything that mattered. Of course, the Inquisition was finished by then. There was no point.

A week had passed when the Venatori came for him.

And came for him they did. One day he was stripped naked and thrown in one of the chambers the new occupiers used for questioning. Three Venatori guards awaited him. With his hands tied behind him, he was defenseless as the three men took turns using his body for their sexual pleasure. Eventually, even the memories of Kinloch Hold faded out as his brain went completely blank. It was like he was outside his body, watching his repeated desecration unfold without any sensations or feelings.

After the rape followed the torture. Nails pulled out with pliers, the strappado dislocating his shoulders, the rack merrily crunching his joints into smithereens, and countless more creative methods and devices designed to maximize his anguish. For a while, every day started with rape and torture and ended with his broken body thrown back in his tiny cell.

At night, he was plagued with unwanted thoughts. The Herald was gone. Cullen believed that Tharin was dead. And he had failed miserably as the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Some dark part of him whispered incessantly that he deserved all of this, for his sins were too numerous and his crimes too great.

Cullen should have stopped Tharin from ever setting a foot in this accursed castle. He should have insisted that they go after the templars and not the mages. Maybe softening his stance on the mages caused all of this. But now, none of the conjecturing and counterfactuals mattered.

Eventually the raping stopped when his unwashed, withered body and unkempt face became a subject of ridicule rather than a means for the new overlords of Redcliffe to inflict even more ignominy upon him. When he realized that his body would no longer be used to pleasure his prison guards and torturers, he cried tears of joy. It did mean, however, that the torture intensified.

If the Venatori were conducting any sort of magical experiment on him, Cullen could not figure it out and the experiment itself was not systemic in any way. The result the Venatori desired seemed to be his pain rather than any kind of methodical accumulation of arcane knowledge. And it escalated until they directly injected red lyrium into the gashing wounds all over his body.

Once red lyrium was implanted and began to grow in his body, all torture abruptly ceased, and he was left alone in his cell. Cullen surmised that even the Venatori were loath to handle red lyrium in close proximity. The human body was a wondrous thing: as poison ate away his insides, his body still struggled to heal itself. Every part of him was still broken as could be, but Cullen could move his limbs with more ease as the days passed.

Utilizing a covert system of message delivery among prisoners, he did his best to keep in touch with members of the Inner Circle in Redcliffe Castle: Cassandra, the Iron Bull, Leliana, Sera, Solas, and Varric. But one by one they gave up, and one by one they began to die. It was pointless to worry about each other. They all knew that the only fate that awaited them was death.

After he gave up entirely on his former colleagues, he focused on his family. He hoped that Mia, Branson, and Rosalie were somewhere safe, away from the center of the Elder One’s dominion. He envisaged them happy and content, in spite of the world falling into chaos. Perhaps it was possible. They could have carved out their own corner of peaceful existence. If that were the case, Cullen almost did not mind his imprisonment.

The memories of the past year and the resultant emotions seeped into his brain like toxic fume, obscuring any other thought. They mixed with his memories from the Ferelden Circle and the unrelenting hums of red lyrium and amplified the fear that was ever present within him. He could feel his heart beating so fast that it threatened to detonate.

The former Commander shambled over to where the young man stood and spoke darkly, “Tharin, look at us. We are all dead already. All we can do is make sure you return to your time and stop this from ever happening.

“What you do from now on matters. You must lead the Inquisition to victory.” The panic gave way to debilitating weariness. Nevertheless, Cullen persisted, “Remember that many have fought and died to preserve the Inquisition.

“I would have chosen death over life if it were just myself. I was ready to die when the war came to Haven. But our recruits and volunteers… The ones captured by the Elder One’s army were dismembered and their body parts were catapulted inside the fort.

“I couldn’t watch them suffer anymore. I pled for mercy, begging the Elder One to release all Inquisition personnel in exchange for my life. It was my last act of free will.” Cullen directed his gaze to the floor. The little flecks of red lyrium dusted across the corridor came into sharp focus.

A part of Cullen always wondered whether he had made the right decision in the last siege of Haven. But his action did save a lot of lives that day. Many returned to their families in one piece instead of throwing away their lives in a hopeless last-ditch effort to stop the inevitable.

He could see that the world was already lost when the demon army filled with bloodthirst showed up at the gates of Haven. By his conditional surrender, his soldiers would spend the last days with their loved ones, away from battlefields where only a certain death awaited. There was no doubt that he failed as a military leader that day, but he did not fail as an honorable human being.

The former Commander knew that this Tharin would face impossible decisions in his future. Maker knows, Cullen had to face them after the Herald disappeared. He wanted to give the young man the strength to always make the right choice. For their future. He raised his head defiantly and finished, “There will come a time when your resolve weakens. I beg you, remember that we have all sacrificed our lives to save the Inquisition, to save Thedas. Be brave and persevere.”

***

By the time they reached the center of the castle, Cullen was fading fast. The torture and severe malnutrition had done their damage, but even their effects combined could not match the poisonous parasite coursing through his veins and toying with his mind. Somehow all the excitement and activity seemed to have made red lyrium pulse harder.

The song of red lyrium was much more ruthless than the dulcet thrums of regular lyrium, and overcoming it required constant vigilance. And it was becoming harder and harder to push back. Death was inevitable and it would be inglorious – Cullen had long ago accepted it.

Still, he did his utmost to contribute to the battle against Magister Alexius. Even as Alexius flitted around the throne room and summoned demons using his ability to control the Fade rifts, Cullen never lost sight of the man. Every time the magister came near, he bashed him with a Venatori shield he had picked up on the way and expertly lacerated with his Venatori sword. It was almost ironic that Alexius would be felled by Venatori weapons.

The Herald focused on knocking the magister down and keeping him in one spot. Eventually Alexius ran out of mana and all he could do was parry with his flimsy sword. It was clear that as a mage, the magister was far from trained in close combat. Every move was one born of desperation and there was no grace, no thought imbued in it.

With Alexius’s wraiths, shades, and terror demons taken care of, Cullen breathed strenuously as he leaned against his scutum and watched the Herald duel with the magister. After a couple minutes of back and forth, Tharin shouted a leonine howl and plunged his greatsword in Alexius’s shoulder, rending him across the chest.

The moment Alexius’s corpse hit the floor, Cullen felt the red lyrium sap the rest of his strength away. He barely managed to keep standing when his legs went weak and the knees buckled suddenly.

Nonetheless, he marshaled anything and everything left in him for the final battle as the ground reverberated with the march of the Elder One’s army. The demons were coming. Cassandra and Varric took positions outside the throne room, while Leliana and Cullen covered the Herald.

Leliana spoke quickly, raising her voice to make sure she was heard through all the rumbling, “Remember that the Anchor is the gateway in and out of the Fade. The Elder One has been desperately seeking to replace the one he’s lost – the one that has been grafted onto your hand – to no avail. He will try to get his hands on yours. Do not let him.”

It was then that Cullen finally gathered enough courage to reveal the truth he had concealed from Tharin. If not for the insurmountable predicament they faced, he could have roared with hilarity at the absurdity. No matter where they were, when they were, the former Commander found himself having to come clean about something to Tharin. The young man was too good for him.

At least the lies would end here.

Still, the former Commander sensed his confession might negatively affect the Herald’s timeline and felt the need to seek permission. The permission, whoever meted it, would have been meaningless, but the ingrained habit as a cog in the templar machinery demanded Cullen of exactly that. He looked at Leliana, who in turn gave him a shallow nod. He then spoke quietly and swiftly, standing just out of reach.

“Tharin, this might be selfish of me, but I don’t care anymore. I… lied to you. When I said that I find what you are… what we are disgusting, it was all a lie. I don’t regret anything we did together. And you certainly did not trigger the visions of Kinloch Hold in me.”

The young man was speechless. He looked struck, his forget-me-not eyes wide with surprise. Maker… He was perfect.

Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, for a moment allowing himself to believe that he was holding Tharin. He recalled the touch from a lifetime ago, tracing in his mind all the lines and marks that embroidered the large hand. He could almost smell the snow and the new flowers. His heart ached for those days.

“I do not expect you to run to your Cullen and make up. Saving Thedas must be your priority. But… before I die, I needed you to know the truth. I… I love you.” A shattered grin memorialized this moment that should never come to pass, and he then unsheathed the sword.

“Go. Make sure this doesn’t become your future.”

Dorian pulled the Herald toward the rift as the demons broke through the entrance and swarmed Cullen and Leliana. Cullen’s chest could have burst from the knowledge that he would die with a sword in his hand securing Thedas’s future and protecting Tharin. If his life had to end now, he could not have asked for a better way for it to end.

Sister Leliana chanted as she let loose arrows upon arrows, “Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame. Andraste, guide me. Maker, take me to your side!”

Cullen fought valiantly as well but could not overcome the sheer number of monstrosities coming at him. In a last act of unjustified selfishness, the former Commander looked back, trying to catch a glimpse of the young man. Their eyes met and he was able to give one final smile. He kept it on even after a searing pain drove through his gut. In his blurring vision, he saw the portal close. The Herald was gone. The world was saved.

His life was complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every companion fought till the bitter end. That matters.
> 
> A short chapter, but IHW and the drama surrounding it needed to have a full chapter dedicated to them. I hope you aren't too disappointed by the length.
> 
> Next up, the other shoe finally drops.
> 
> Follow me, **isk4649** , on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new, WIP Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan.
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	13. The Parting of Ways

Tharin intentionally left out future Cullen’s confession as he recounted his experience in Redcliffe to the war council. Thankfully, the Altus was too busy getting the amulet to work to have heard anything in the throne room, so he did not contradict or add to the account.

The young man did not know what to make of the confession, and he did not want to spend energy trying to parse its meanings. He had learned of many events that individually could exert a devastating influence on the future of Thedas. He simply could not divert his attention to personal thoughts. For now, he was grateful that Cullen was here at Haven, very much alive and very much free of red lyrium.

Yet the meeting to discuss the strange future quickly veered off its course and devolved into a shouting match between him and the Commander. Tharin’s invitation to the rebel mages, or a horde of apostates for some, did not sit well with Cullen. The captive audience, consisting of Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra, and Dorian, tried to mediate, only to be snubbed repeatedly by them both. All they could do was to wait out the storm.

“What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The veil is torn open, probably because of something a misguided mage had done, and now you expect the rebel mages to cooperate just like that?”

Exasperated, Tharin let his exhale settle heavily. His whole body seemed to shrink along with his already deflating mood. He could not believe that Cullen, of all people, would think he’d make an important decision like this willy-nilly. “We need them precisely because we need their magic to close the breach. What would you have me do, conscript them? Enslave them? It’s not going to work if we make enemies of them!”

“I know we need them for the Breach, but they could do as much damage as the demons themselves! You were there, Seeker! Why didn’t you intervene!”

Called to defend the Commander’s position, the Seeker crossed her arms and pursed her lips before speaking curtly, “While I may not completely agree with the decision, I support it. The sole point of the Herald’s mission was to gain the mages’ aid, and that was accomplished.”

Sounding almost relieved, Dorian quipped, “The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments.”

Then came from Cullen a snarl that shocked Tharin with its hostility. “No one asked your opinion, Tevinter!”

This was an unacceptable behavior. Tharin let the mantle of leadership take over as he folded his arms and puffed his chest.

“Commander! I must ask you once again to be respectful to every member of the Inner Circle! If you cannot bring yourself to comply with my demand, I must ask you to leave the room. Whatever hang-ups you may have about mages or Tevinters, Dorian aided me in reversing the time magic and gain the allies we needed!”

Though she clearly wanted to stay out of the fight, Cassandra nodded and agreed, “Closing the Breach is all that matters.”

Silence fell in the war room. The only sound heard was the chant in the main hall, its sugary words sounding hollow. No one moved a muscle. After a minute – or perhaps mere seconds – Tharin continued with a dark voice. He was no longer the Herald of Andraste or the de facto head of the ragtag group of the faithful called the Inquisition, but an injured and angered beast.

Unrestrained by decorum, camaraderie, affection, or even the boundaries of effective leadership, the words that came out next were pure venom. Cullen had hurt him, and now he was going to pay it back tenfold.

Tharin stared straight ahead at the ochre eyes swimming in fire and breathed poison.

“You told me you’ve changed, that you no longer harbor unfair prejudices against mages. Yet here you are, expecting the worst from our new allies, thinking all of them are abominations just waiting to torture and kill everyone in the Inquisition.

“Tell me, Commander, do you think mages are people? I am curious to know if you really do think they deserve the same rights as we non-magical folks do. Have you actually thought about how you helped start the senseless bloodshed between mages and templars? Because that is precisely what you did in Kirkwall: oppressing the mages until they had no other choice but to revolt. If this kind of attitude is what they faced while Meredith and you were in charge, I do not blame the Kirkwall mages for blowing up the chantry.”

Cassandra, wide-eyed and obviously panicking, tried to speak out, “Ah, Tharin…”

Leliana with her characteristic calm superseded the Seeker and interrupted the Herald, “All right. That’s enough. We cannot fight among ourselves like this. I think it’s best to take a break and cool our heads, no?”

But Tharin was not finished with his diatribe. With his eyes unwavering and unblinking, he continued, “No, I am not done. I am glad I did not know you when you were in Kirkwall. You would have driven me out of the templars faster than my bullies ever could.

“I am glad Kyr and I were not there with you. You would have made him tranquil for my courting him, just to make yourself feel safer. Well, if the Knight-Captain feels safe it doesn’t matter how many mages are rendered into tranquil, does it? They are not even people after all, just sheep to be herded.

“I said, that is enough.” Leliana’s tone became sharp, though its volume did not modulate higher.

Tharin felt something devastating, a gallimaufry of panic and rectitudinous outrage, rising from the very bottom of his chest but managed to prevail upon it. He desired nothing more than for Cullen to feel what he had felt that morning, when the man ended everything. What he had been feeling since that morning. And for that to happen, he had to maintain some modicum of self-control.

Leliana began to approach the young man, perhaps to physically stop him, but her attempt was blocked by the young man holding up his Anchor hand. Tharin saw the Spymaster silently glare at the hand that hovered inches away from the tip of her nose. He knew she had no recourse. He would handily defeat her if this altercation became physical.

And in any case, the Inquisition required his hand. His Maker-damned Anchor. The woman would not be able to lay a finger on him.

The young man rapidly spat out the last words, more spiteful than anything he had ever said during his time at Haven. “You are the worst kind of hypocrite, Cullen. You tell everyone that you are changed, that you are made anew. But when push comes to shove, you use your old prejudices to dictate your words and actions. I’ve had enough. I no longer wish to hear what you think of our mage allies.”

The deluge of scorching words finally receded and the rapid beats in his heart calmed somewhat. Somehow, the Herald felt light, as though a perdurable encumbrance had been displaced from his back.

Tharin whirled around and marched to the door. With his right hand resting on the door handle, he declared like a potentate he was, “The mages are here to close the Breach, and all of you will treat them like you treat our soldiers. They will go wherever they please, and they will be partnered up with the soldiers when we march to the Temple.”

As Tharin swung open the door with all his might and the door banged haphazardly against the stone wall, he was reminded of a memory from Hasmal.

When Tharin was still a templar neophyte, a Nevarran dragon hunter passed through the city, and the Knight-Commander invited her to give a lecture in the Circle. While it was not a practicum, she nevertheless included details that would be useful in real-life encounters. For instance, she pointed out weak points throughout the body that she would focus her attacks on. Most of them were commonsensical: eyes, nostrils, ears, and the groin.

But she finished the lecture by issuing a grave warning about going after something called squama inverso – _inverted scale_ in old Tevene. A squama inverso was a piece of dermis that went against the grain. Every dragon had one on the underside of its neck, and it counted as a weak point.

Yet the hunter told the audience never to go after the squama inverso at the beginning of the battle, but to wait until the dragon was visibly faltering and could no longer breathe whatever element it controlled. Otherwise, hitting the scale would only give the dragon a second wind and make it far stronger and more vicious.

According to the hunter, the pain was enough to drive the dragon mad, but not enough to incapacitate it if it was still in command of the elements. She said she had seen many novice hunters annihilated after carelessly hitting it when their foes were still at their full strength.

Tharin knew he had hit Cullen’s squama inverso. Not just once, but over and over again.

It occurred to the young man that he was being craven when he fled before the inevitable pushback. But he couldn’t care less. Cullen was crushed and Tharin was triumphant. That was all that mattered.

***

The door to the war room closed slowly with a loud screech. No one followed the Herald. Silence sat in the chamber weightily. Leaden, it seemed to have bolted everyone to her spot.

Even then, Leliana’s brain never ceased moving. She wondered whether the way the Commander ended the relationship had anything to do with the savage quarrel. And then she wondered if there would be any way to reconcile the two men without having to reveal her role in the breakup. Or maybe Tharin deserved to know about her role.

No, the bond between the Herald and the Commander had been broken. Their working relationship would not be fixed simply by informing Tharin of her role in the matter, and it would make him trust her less. Things had to stay the course, so that the Inquisition was not under the threat of complete derailment.

Commander Rutherford began to speak in a quiet voice, but no one doubted the potency of rage that smoldered beneath the deceptive calm.

“I know I cannot defend my actions in Kirkwall. But I did not disclose my past to the Herald so he could berate me in front of all of you. I shan’t tolerate it.

“I take it he would rather not have me in the Inquisition, given that my concerns about potential dangers posed by the rebel mages are not welcome. Then so shall it be. After seeing to the operation to close the Breach, I will resign from my post and leave.”

Leliana felt a headache come on. Massaging the temples gently, she tried to convince the Commander, “Do not make a decision like this so hastily. Closing the Breach won’t solve many of the problems Thedas faces. I fear it will only worsen the infighting.”

Cullen looked away with bloodshot eyes.

“I know how devoted you are to our cause. Suppose you do quit and leave your post. Can you honestly say that you will be fine leaving such great responsibility to someone else?”

The Commander refused to look back at her as she stared. Sounding completely defeated, he said, “You heard the Herald. My bigoted opinions and I are no longer welcome in the Inquisition. I am not worthy of the great cause. Thus, I shall take them and go.”

Leliana put more pressure on her temples as the headache intensified. Holy Maker, had she ever needed a drink this badly? “You may change your mind. Let us keep your plan a secret from the Herald. I am sure everyone agrees.”

With knitted brows, Cullen turned and glowered at the Spymaster. “No, Sister. You are wrong. I won’t change my mind, and the Herald must be informed. Keeping my resignation secret will do nobody good.”

Men. Why couldn’t they be more rational? Leliana let her hands drop to her sides, sighed delicately, and shook her head. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

***

In the evening after the disastrous debriefing in the war room, Tharin was at the training ground whacking the practice dummies with every move he had in store. When his tunic was soaked and pasted to his torso and every muscle in his body screamed for rest, Cullen stopped by and informed Tharin of his decision to step down from the commandership.

With an undignified sneer in his face, Tharin barked, “Sounds like a capital idea.” He could see the pain and disappointment replace the anger that bled out of Cullen’s face.

Things broken could not be mended. His relationship with Cullen was irretrievably broken.

And even if the pieces were put together, the result would not be the same as what it was before. If this truism was not clear to Tharin before, it was now.

At last, he could stop hoping. It was a relief.

***

Many days passed with both men not uttering a word to each other. The others had to be thankful that the regular war council meeting was not scheduled until the week after. For a while, anyway, they could focus on their own spheres of influence, whether it be in diplomacy or in covert operations or in training recruits, and push out of their minds the ongoing dispute between the Herald and the Commander.

Yet time did not stop and neither did the schedule change on them.

At Josephine’s behest, the Herald and the advisors gathered at the tavern. Ever the dedicated diplomat, she was hoping that the publicness of the venue would encourage everyone to maintain civility. Her plan worked, but neither man addressed the other through the entire meeting. Eventually, Cullen excused himself.

He went to sit at the bar, trying not to look too sullen while he watched Tharin, Leliana, and Josephine having a hushed conversation at the corner table by the window. They were discussing the appearance of the Elder One, the Venatori, the possible assassination of Empress Celene, and the future that should never be allowed to come to pass, all the while he was excluded. His exile was self-imposed, but he nonetheless felt like a mabari peering through the window at his humans. The beer tasted bitterer and sourer than he’d remembered.

Once, in another lifetime, it was the Herald and he, no one else, sitting there. They shared drinks, food, and deeply personal anecdotes. In another lifetime before he ruined everything. Just another regret in a life filled with regrets.

Preoccupied with moping, he heard neither the door swinging open nor a man ambling up to him. He only turned when he heard someone clear his throat. It was Dorian.

“Fancy running into you here, Commander. I didn’t peg you as much of a drinker.”

“I am not. We are just holding the council here.”

“Ah, rather an unconventional choice of venue, I’d say. But then why aren’t you huddled with the rest of them over there?”

“Because they are talking about Orlesian court intrigues, the subject on which I have nothing to contribute. So I’m sitting this one out.”

The mage hummed and stroked his mustache. With levity in his voice, he added, “I bet you still have a lot to say.”

Cullen quickly sipped more of his beer before answering. “I do, but I excused myself. I didn’t want to incur the Herald’s wrath again.”

Dorian clicked his tongue. Whether in disapproval or in glee, the Commander could not tell. The man pointed to a stool next to Cullen. “Mind if I sit here?”

“The seat’s open, isn’t it?” he grumbled.

“Well, well, ruggedly handsome _and_ friendly. I cannot fathom why you aren’t more popular with the gentle ladies of Haven.” Cullen ignored the comment altogether, but it did not discourage the mage. “I kid. There are no gentle ladies at Haven. I imagine you’d have to leave these Maker-forsaken mountains to find one of those.”

After taking the seat, the mustachioed man continued to speak breezily. “I wonder what fantastical plans they will come up with next. Perhaps breeding nugs that can fly and breathe fire. Those will come in handy, I am sure. A cute pet the Inquisition could sell for profit that could also be turned into a vicious weapon when needed.”

The man was insufferable. “Master Pavus… As much as I appreciate a talented conversationalist such as yourself, I fear I will not make a good companion to you this evening.”

“Might as well. I do enjoy listening to myself talk. I have a dulcet voice and I find my wit incredibly well-received by my ears.”

If the mage knew he was an unwelcome guest in Cullen’s personal space, he gave no indication. Dorian swiveled around and ordered a pint from Flissa. When he got the stein, he gulped a mouthful and made a comically exaggerated face that signaled revulsion.

Dorian might be insufferable, but he made up by being doubly suave. It was impossible to not like him.

In truth, Cullen wanted to like him. The mage could pick up the pieces of Tharin and make the young man whole again. He could replace the bitter memories Cullen was leaving behind. He could be everything for Tharin that Cullen was not. He certainly appeared to be a courageous man, going against the current and trying to right the wrong in his homeland. A diametric opposite of this old former templar.

The Commander set down his stein and turned to look at Dorian. He felt his brow crease with nerves, but he knew this had to be done.

“I–I must apologize for my atrocious behavior during the last week’s meeting. Please, don’t let my foolish words taint your impression of the Inquisition.”

Dorian’s gray eyes were not unkind. He patted Cullen’s shoulder and intoned lightly, “Ah, pay no mind. I assumed you were having a bad day. Besides, I’ve heard much worse.”

“Regardless, the way I spoke to you was reprehensible. If there is anything I could do to–”

Now the mage was rapping his back cheerily. “Oh, you sweet man. You are taking things way too seriously. But, if you insist on making it up to me, just listen to my drivel. I’ve yet to make a friend other than the Herald, and I could use at least one more.

“It does get tiring when people stare and point every time one goes out for a constitutional. At least have the courage to hurl the insults directly to my face, if you get my meaning? It’s a crying shame when those people must have worked so hard on them with their tiny brains.”

Cullen chuckled, though warily. He had seen many mages ostracized and bullied during his templar days, and he did not want to make light of the fact that Dorian was indeed treated differently by many at Haven purely because of his background. It came as a surprise to him that there was no reported incident of the mage experiencing physical harassment at the hands of more brutish templars among the Inquisition ranks.

But would the mage even tell him if it were to actually happen? To Dorian, he must have appeared no different from any other tyrannical templars. The ones who let the power go to their heads. He had already been regretting his outburst, but now he positively loathed himself for it.

***

Dorian thought Cullen looked like a puppy trying to look sorry for tearing up a rug. It was quite endearing actually, if one were into that sort of thing.

After Dorian sipped delicately from his stein and made a face again, he nodded toward Tharin. “What do you make of our boy there?”

“Pardon?”

“I meant, what are your thoughts on him? Couldn’t help but notice you’ve been staring at him the entire time. And I suppose I’d like to make sure I’m on the winning side. I balk at the idea of being forced to join the Venatori. To start with, their awful hoods don’t exactly measure up to my fine sartorial taste.”

The Commander flinched and spoke cagily, “I couldn’t say. I’d thought he… Ah well, it doesn’t matter. I will be gone soon enough.”

“He’s a bit… different from what one would expect from a southern templar, isn’t he? Though I suspect that has something to do with his unusual family history. I’ve met the publican who owned his mother back in the day. Horribly temperamental and greedy too. Makes perfect sense he’d sell off his slave.

“Pompous bluebloods of Tevinter find it terribly ill-bred to trade off house slaves. They are like family, the kind of family who do all the chores while one lounges around and eats peeled grapes. Peeled beforehand by their nimble slave fingers, by the by.”

Dorian could see his words were putting Cullen in a foul mood, but nevertheless kept going. After all, how would one be able to test one’s limit without pushing the envelope first? He’d always intended to do this with everyone in the Inner Circle and thought he might as well start with the Commander.

“You know, I find it quite fascinating that the southerners do not seem to care half as much about the Herald’s descent as us Tevinters do. The man is a Trevelyan _and_ half-elven! That is an odd combination if I ever saw one.

“I can’t imagine the clan would have been very happy to see an elven seductress snatch up their progeny. If this were Minrathous, she would have been made to disappear and her son would not be the Herald of anything, let alone a member of the nobility or a templar.”

The mage flashed a toothy grin. Cullen responded by growling menacingly, “Master Pavus, I understand you come from a land with different customs. Nonetheless, here in the south, the fact that the Herald has elven blood counts as a positive. And I would thank you to never again denigrate his mother or his heritage.”

Dorian simply smoothed his mustache. He did enjoy causing trouble, perhaps excessively so. Father always counted that as his least favorite quality, until the day he found out about his heir’s other, more scandalous proclivities. “Really? Because if I’m not mistaken you southerners turn your noses at alienages like we do at elven slaves.”

The Commander’s hand tightened its grip on the stein handle. “I shall speak for myself and my soldiers. We do not care whether our comrades are elven, dwarven, human, or whatever else. What matters is that they are fighting with us and they are willing to shoulder their fair share in battle.

“The same goes for the Herald. The differences in our opinions notwithstanding, I recognize he has done a tremendous job in bringing the Inquisition to where it is now. In fact, the Herald’s being born to a freed elven mother has been a boon. He is compassionate because he understands what it’s like to be an outsider. Not many people in his position would let compassion guide their actions.”

An exhale marked the end of this rather drab speech, which was followed by an equally drab lament. “I just wish we could part on good terms. I’ve come to cherish his friendship… but I presume I can no longer lay claim to that.”

Now Dorian had to ask, just what was Tharin to the Commander? He fell silent, trying to divine some clue from the words spoken.

When Dorian did not sass him with a witty comeback, Cullen’s face became flushed and he scratched the back of his neck. The Altus noted it as the Commander’s tell. So obvious, this man. If left to his own devices he would not survive a day in Tevinter, two days at most in Orlais.

The Commander spoke in a subdued voice, “Forgive me, you must think me terribly self-righteous, especially after that outburst in the war room. I just believe… the Herald is someone who’s earned our respect and I would rather you didn’t make offhanded comments about him.”

Dorian pretended to be incensed before letting his lips curve upward slyly. “Commander, if we are to be friends, you should let go of the preconceived notion that I, a magister’s heir, am a shallow, judgmental dogmatist. While I do find the Herald’s descent interesting, I could not care less, and I certainly didn’t mean to be disrespectful. If he defeats the Elder One, I will gladly kiss one by one all the toes on his half-elven feet.”

Cullen merely grinned. But he looked pensive, not amused. His gaze returned to Tharin, like a compass needle pointing north.

The Commander was a serious man. Dorian never doubted that. But his being so protective of someone, that was a first.

It did not take too long for Dorian to put two and two together. And when he did, he was almost disappointed in himself for not seeing it sooner. In retrospect, it could not have been more obvious if it were written on the Commander’s forehead. The overwrought interactions between Tharin and Cullen of the future that would no longer come to pass, the exceptionally personal attacks in the war council, the strangely overformal attitude the Commander exhibited whenever he was in the young man’s presence, and now this.

Commander Cullen Rutherford, a six-foot brick outhouse of a man, had feelings for the Herald of Andraste, who was also a man.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” muttered the Altus as he brought the stein to his mouth. The Commander tilted his head questioningly but did not inquire further. His eyes quickly returned to the young man.

***

As if to prove Cullen wrong, the mages integrated into the extant structure of the Inquisition rapidly and without much of a hitch. It was partly due to the fact that they all knew they had nowhere else to go and partly due to Grand Enchanter Fiona’s ability to influence them.

Tharin’s first impression of the woman was underwhelming to say the least. She did not seem like the charismatic type, as she was forced to grovel before Gereon Alexius and King Alistair. But whatever method Fiona relied on, she showed a genuine aptitude when it came to managing public opinions.

Predictably, there were more than a few kerfuffles between the rebel mages and templar soldiers, but either Cassandra, Cullen, or Tharin was there to intervene swiftly each time. The Herald was grateful that the Commander was at least grudgingly facilitating the process instead of actively sabotaging it, though he always knew he could count on Cullen when it came to the great cause.

After all, the Inquisition was the Commander’s first love. A love that partially contributed to his throwing away what they had started and stomping on Tharin’s heart, but a real love nevertheless.

The pain washed over the young man periodically like waves. The feelings he had held for Cullen were addictive like lyrium and consequently there were withdrawal symptoms he had not anticipated. Sometimes ale helped. Sometimes hacking up practice dummies helped. Sometimes adventuring helped. Mostly, all he could do was wait for it to subside on its own. The waves come and go, and the pain came and went.

Yet in the far corner of his head was the inevitable recognition that he had hurt Cullen, enough for the man to decide to leave the Inquisition, his newfound home. It was an iceberg, only the tip of which touched upon the pain of the breakup. Underneath the waves lurked the resultant self-hatred even time would not be able to wash away. And it was irreversible. Cruel words were said, and they could not be taken back just by his wishing fervently.

But the intensity of this self-hatred made it impossible for Tharin to directly confront what he had done. So, the stalemate continued aimlessly for weeks. No one dared to bring up the quarrel between the Herald and the Commander, and both men kept their conversations short and perfunctory. Professionalism was a dam that held back the raw emotions. In the reservoir of clogged emotions, Tharin felt his soul fester, but the arrangement would hold until Cullen was gone.

The Herald refused to sign off on the mission to close the Breach in a blatant attempt to delay the inevitable. He wasn’t delusional. He was aware that Leliana knew, Josephine knew, Cassandra knew, and Cullen definitely knew what was going on. After stalling for just shy of a week, he had to concede that the Inquisition was ready, and its army marched to the Temple of Sacred Ashes the next day.

The mission proved to be anticlimactic, as it should have been if it was going according to the plan. Months of preparation, weeks of strategizing, and days of careful execution had paid off.  
Hundreds of warriors and mages easily secured the surrounding area and with a flick of Tharin’s wrist, the Breach was gone. All it left was a hauntingly beautiful scar in the heavens, reminding everyone in Thedas that the Inquisition meant business.

***

A grand feast was held in honor of returning heroes, fastidiously organized by none other than Lady Josephine Montilyet, party planner extraordinaire. That night there were no divisions: humans and elves, mages and templars, all singing and dancing and drinking, celebrating the fact that they survived one of the most cataclysmic events of their lifetimes. Conspicuously absent among the joyous crowd, however, were the Herald, the Commander, and the Seeker.

Cullen exited the apothecary after checking on soldiers and mages who had been injured from the blast of magical energy that the Breach emitted. There were no casualties, and no one was seriously injured, thank the Maker. Just bruises, scuffs, and some dislocated joints. As far as military operations go, it was a resounding success. It was his final mission and it truly could not have gone better. He felt content, at least about this.

He surveyed the courtyard and found Tharin and Cassandra chatting in front of the chantry. He fixed his gaze on the hero, confident and strong, trying to memorize how he looked at the moment of triumph. It would be a memento he would take to… wherever he was going next. He took a deep breath and approached the two tall figures.

“Since the Breach is closed, I must tender my resignation as Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. I will discuss with Seeker Pentaghast, and she will give you a list of potential replacements. Of course, I shall contribute financially however much needed to get a new Commander.”

Tharin exhaled deeply and the Commander suddenly noticed how worn-down he looked. “Cullen… Can we please not do this? Not tonight, surely.”

Cassandra joined the conversation promptly. “Yes, Commander. I do not think this is the time or the place to talk of leaving. Why don’t you just enjoy the festivities? I am sure your soldiers would appreciate seeing you there.”

When Cullen did not reply, the woman continued somewhat angrily, “What about all the work we still have? We’ve reports of lingering rifts and many questions remain. The Inquisition’s forces will be called again. Don’t you at least want to see through the handover, to make sure there are no disruptions?”

“No, Seeker. I’ve found that… I cannot stay where my opinions are not valued and my intentions are questioned.” He knew he was letting everyone down but knowing Tharin no longer accepted him was unbearable. It was the coward’s way out, yet he had to go.

Cullen turned to Tharin but refused to meet his eyes. “You will find my letter of resignation on the war table. I wish you the best, your worship. Whatever comes after my departure… please heed the advice of Seeker Pentaghast. She is the best of us.”

As if to signal an end to his monologue, he heard a watch guard shout. Next, the bells all over the town were tolling. Haven was being invaded.

Cullen sprang to immediate action. With his muscles taut and his face grim, he yelled, “Forces approaching! To arms!”

The Commander ran to the gate and found a strange boy with skin so pale that he seemed to be almost translucent. When Tharin arrived, he tried to draw near, only to be blocked by a guard. The Herald waved her away and the boy began to speak in a whispery voice.

“I’m Cole. I came to warn you. To help. The templars are coming to hurt you.”

Cullen raged. “The templars? Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

The boy did not wince or change his tone. “The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him? He knows you. You took his mages. He’s very angry you took his mages.” He then pointed to the mountains. “There.”

On a bluff overlooking Haven stood the Elder One and a man the former Knight-Commander thought he would never again see.

“Samson…!”

Death had come a-knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this reckoning was long overdue. Like two chapters overdue.
> 
> At least we had Dorian's inner thoughts to entertain and sustain us through the angst. I hope you enjoyed them. I certainly did.
> 
> Next up, survival and revival?
> 
> Find and follow me at **https://isk4649.tumblr.com** on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new, WIP Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan. Currently, 11 out of 15 chapters done!
> 
> Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	14. A Dénouement

Cullen knew it was a folly to pray for the blizzard to let up. He knew. Besides, they needed the blizzard to blanket the Inquisition’s temporary camp and guard it from discovery by the enemy. Whoever that unknown enemy may be. Yet all Cullen could see in his mind was himself wading through the storm helpless and useless while the Herald faded away from exposure somewhere deep in the mountains.

The worse alternative, that the Herald was long dead and buried under several feet of snow next to the rubbles of Haven, had not occurred to Cullen. It was an unquestionable, though entirely unverifiable, fact to him that the man had made out alive.

Cullen shook his head to stop the thoughts from wandering toward the worst possible outcome and shielded his eyes with his right hand. The serrated blades of alpine wind relentlessly hacked at his face, making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes forward. The snow came up to his thighs and it was all he could do to remain standing. He’d already stumbled what felt like a million times as the terrain constantly changed beneath his feet.

“Cullen, we must pull back. We’ve searched long enough, and we cannot just leave the camp undefended.” Cassandra shouted, breathless and tired. Her booming voice sounded muffled as the wind roared around them.

“Just a little more. Please.”

“That is unwise. We have most of the soldiers searching for the Herald, who… Let’s face it, who may not even be alive, while the refugees are sitting in the camp defenseless.”

Cullen gritted his teeth. She was right, especially in her assessment of the low likelihood of Tharin’s survival. But the Herald was alive. He knew it. “You and the men can pull back. I will go on with the search alone.”

He could see the Seeker open her mouth to protest, only to close it as she considered the options. She then turned to the soldiers and barked orders. “You and you. You two will continue the search with Commander Cullen and me. The rest of you, make your way back to the camp and secure the perimeter. Make sure the mages set up magical barriers while you shore up the defenses. I’ve deputized Rylen, so follow his orders after you are done. Understood?”

The soldiers saluted Cassandra and Cullen before turning to leave. When the Seeker faced the Commander, he gave her an appreciative grin. “I cannot thank you enough, Seeker.”

“Not at all. Let us make haste now.”

Another half hour passed before Cullen started to lose hope. They were backtracking the route the Inquisition took after fleeing Haven, but there were no new footprints and no new personal items abandoned on the ground. The Commander kept stealing sidelong glances at the Seeker, feeling guiltier every second.

He was about to suggest that she and the two soldiers head back after looking around the narrow passage when he saw a figure collapsed on an open field just beyond the rocks. The silhouette shimmered with an eerie glow.

“There! It’s him!”

“Thank the Maker!”

It was apparent from where they stood that the Herald’s face was buried in snow. Cullen felt the pit of his stomach drop. He ran, tripped, fell, and finally crawled. An eternity passed before he could reach the figure. Failing to still his trembling hands, Cullen turned the young man over and checked for a pulse. It was a balm to find his heart still beating, though weak and slow. He was holding on, just barely.

“Tharin, please open your eyes. Look at me.”

After the longest five seconds of Cullen’s life, he saw a pair of intensely blue eyes looking back at him. A welcome flash of recognition crossed them. “Cullen… You came for me…” His lips, pale blue and cracked, moved slowly as he looked up to Cullen. Something akin to a pained smile spread across his face. His frozen hand reached out and rested on Cullen’s cheek, as if to confirm that the figure kneeling in front of him was not a product of his hallucination. “You came back for me…”

“Of course I did. I would follow you anywhere,” Cullen whispered. He pulled Tharin into a tight embrace, grateful for the contact and terrified of the body’s coldness. He motioned to Cassandra and they helped Tharin up. Disoriented and at the threshold of death, the young man’s head rolled back wildly as they put their arms around him. Like cradling a newborn, Cullen had to use his left hand to prop it back up.

The Commander snuggled his body tightly against the young man, hoping it would keep him warm enough as they fought their way back to the camp.

In a hoarse whisper, Tharin began to speak again. Whatever he was saying, he apparently wanted to say it right away. Completely occupied with their footing, Cullen only turned when the frail voice grabbed his attention.

“You said that… in Redcliffe…” The parched lips curled downward. “But then… I said all those horrible things and you said you wanted to leave.” The young man quaked and frowned like he was about to weep.

“Please… don’t leave me,” Tharin mumbled sadly, “I’m sorry about everything. I betrayed your confidence and hurt you… I’ve treated you so horribly. I’m sorry…”

Cullen finally shushed him and spoke gently. “It’s all right. And I won’t. I will never leave your side. _I_ am sorry I ever said I wanted to.”

“…Thank you, Cullen…” Tharin replied with a long exhale, like a burden was coming off. But the breath must have let out some of his dwindling life, because the young man began to fade away and slide from their grasp.

Panicked, the Commander urged, “Come on, stay with me. Please stay with me… please. We are almost there.” As if woken up by the prompting, the young man’s arms were once again holding on, on their own volition. He wasn’t done fighting, and the Commander was not about to let him surrender.

In the most calming voice he could rally amid the chaos, Cullen breathed, “I’ve got you. You will be okay. Just a little more, I swear.”

Cullen could not be sure, but he thought he heard Cassandra sniffle.

As they descended the mountains, there was only one thought in his head. Despite the loss of Haven, despite all the lives cut short, despite his failure to foresee the sequence of events that brought down the Inquisition, and despite the uncertainty of the coming day, Tharin was alive. That was all that mattered.

 _I will not lose you now_ , he swore silently.

***

After a night of absolute terror and a harried flight across the highlands, everyone was done in. A rousing chorus Mother Giselle started did energize the camp, but only for a short while.

Under the morning sun, with the previous night’s storm completely cleared up, people could no longer hide their weariness. Nor did they have enough physical and mental energy left to care.

Josephine, who would normally be excitedly chirping her morning report, and Leliana, who would be following in Josie’s footsteps with a soft expression of muted amusement, were just leaning against each other on a bench, half-dozing and half-awake.

Cassandra was sitting in the muck in front of a burnt-out campfire, using her shield to prop her face up and holding her sword crookedly. Though the mixture of melting snow and dirt was staining the seat of her trousers, she did not move. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t all there.

Most other members of the Inner Circle were sleeping. One exception was Dorian, who was furiously leafing through every book on ancient history he had managed to extract from Haven, trying to ascertain the identity of this “Corypheus” the Elder One claimed to be. No luck so far.

Cullen was in a makeshift tent, watching over a sleeping Tharin. He was cognizant that he must be exhausted after the ordeal, but he did not feel it. Instead, he felt a dull ache in his chest whenever he caught the glimpse of the Herald’s left arm beneath the moth-eaten blanket.

Since they staggered back, every thought that had crossed Cullen’s mind was like a jagged glass fragment. The glass dug into the sensitive spots and widened the wounds already there. If only he had been more careful, if only he remained behind, if only he wasn’t such a Maker-damned coward, all of this could have been averted and Tharin would not be hurt. His incompetence was astonishing.

Maybe the Commander could have sacrificed himself somehow, changing the course of events and bringing about better results for the Inquisition and the Herald.

Yet being dragged into the swirling vortex of agonizing what-ifs reminded him of what Tharin had said about love and pain. Cullen cast off the burden of proof, prudence, and prejudice, and as he did so, lingering doubts about his feelings toward the young man gave way to singular confirmation. The absolute certainty of this knowledge weighed heavily on the Commander as he watched the young man’s chest rise and fall steadily.

Blissfully unaware of the hurricane raging inside the Commander’s head, Tharin groaned and opened his eyes. As his profound sapphire eyes became alert and focused on Cullen, he flashed a sweet smile that brought forth more pain in the other man.

“What a pleasant sight to wake up to. Why the long face, Commander?” He seemed groggy but spirited. The healers had done a wonderful job, considering the state he was in last night.

The Commander clutched his right hand. “How do you feel?”

The young man flexed his muscles and yawned. “Mm, like I could sleep for years.”

“I think we still have a few hours before we are off to… wherever Solas is leading us. Though I don’t know why we are trusting him when we know next to nothing about–”

“Cullen, it will be fine.” chuckling jovially, Tharin began to reach out to Cullen. But he froze instantly when his left hand entered the field of his vision. The hand, in addition to hosting the Anchor, was now missing the ring finger and the little finger. It was impossible to tell the extent of damage though. Rolls of bandages obscured everything from wrist up.

The green light from the Anchor seeped through the fabrics, making the hand look otherworldly, like it belonged in the Fade with its lost digits.

“Oh.”

Apparently, the shock was too great for an overdramatic response.

Cullen let his gaze drop. He attempted to resist his throat closing so he could choke out a feeble explanation. “After you fell unconscious, we had the healers take a look at you. They were able to save the rest of your limbs, but those two were too frostbitten.”

To Cullen’s surprise, Tharin snorted amusedly. “Ha. Excellent. Now no woman will have me. A husband who is maimed _and_ who can’t keep a wedding band on? They will run for the hills screaming.”

“Tharin…” The name came out as a half-sigh. Somehow this reaction was much worse. He would have preferred for the young man to lash out, maybe yell, letting Cullen take the blame. It would have come as a relief.

The young man’s voice, now even more softened, mercilessly slashed at Cullen’s heart. The punishment that he deserved, that he dearly sought for, never came.

“It’s okay. Really. I’ve only ever been with men, and I don’t plan on changing that. Which means I will never marry, so a ring finger is just a waste. And so is a pinkie, unless you are a courtier and need it raised to show how fancy you are.”

There was something bittersweet about the young man’s verbose and rather clumsy attempt to cheer up Cullen. Part of the rationale for Cullen’s desire of a verbal thrashing was because he wanted Tharin to let his guard down around him. Even if courtship was out of the question, he still wanted to be a loyal friend to the young man.

But what could the Commander expect when he himself was the source of pain, both physical and mental? No wonder the Herald was keeping him at arm’s length by pretending everything was all right. In reality, everything was categorically not all right. He knew it, and Tharin had to have recognized it.

Cullen felt an old companion return: loneliness, equally as upsetting but fairly distinct from guilt.

He looked hard into the young man’s face. There must have been something below the clownish smile plastered for his benefit, but he could not see it.

The young man continued with his babbling, “This is nothing. Though I guess I will have to learn to lift my greatsword with just eight fingers now. My forearms are going to get gigantic!”

Cullen leaned forward and buried his face in his own hands. He meant to stifle his voice, but it came out anyway, halting and constricted. “I did this to you…”

The ensuing silence was suffocating, as if they’d dove headfirst into a vat of molasses. Certainly too heavy for the young man to joke and pretend nothing was wrong.

“Cullen?”

The voice kept getting tenderer. It was killing Cullen.

“Will you please look at me?”

He lifted his face, but willfully avoided the gaze. Tharin exhaled lightly, propped himself up, and reached out with his right hand to gently hold the Commander’s bristly chin. Cullen blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the emotions that would have led to tears given the chance. When he adjusted his focus, he saw the intense crystalline eyes peering back at him.

“Corypheus was coming after me, and I had to stay. It would have been wrong of me to hide behind you or anyone else. I was also the one who ordered you to get everyone to safety. Everything is the result of what I am, of the decisions I made. Not because of you or the decisions you made. You are not responsible for this.”

“But… I could’ve done more. I should have defied your order and stayed. I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself.”

“Yet here I am. No offense, but I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t have gone against my plan, because there was so much at stake. And don’t forget, you came back and saved me from certain death.”

Tharin’s carefully constructed smile began to crack, and Cullen could see the simmering anger contained within. There was a new edge in the young man’s voice. “Not everything is your fault. You are not a god. So, stop blaming yourself for every bloody thing that’s went wrong.”

“I–I wasn’t saying I am… I apologize. Truly.”

The anger seemed to transmute to anguish, though it took Cullen a considerable effort to distinguish between the two in the young man’s expression.

“No, no. You shouldn’t have to ask for my forgiveness… I just wish you would be kinder to yourself,” said Tharin in a low tone.

The Commander fell silent. Perhaps the young man was right. Still, the turmoil roiling inside him was real, and it pointed the blame squarely at him and no one else. Or at the least, the feeling of guilt was more visceral to him than the opinion that he was unreasonably harsh on himself.

Cullen nevertheless thought he had to be in the wrong if his words evoked such wrath and hurt in the young man, and he tried to give Tharin a reassuring grin. Unfortunately, he had never been all that adept at controlling his face to suit the needs of the situation at hand. The Commander was first and foremost a soldier.

Tharin withdrew his hand and Cullen mourned the loss of the touch, however meaningless or passing it might have been.

With another sigh, the young man began to draw out an inquiry punctuated by one too many pauses, “Cullen, I’ve been thinking… I suppose this isn’t the best time, but I’ve wanted to ask forever… I don’t quite understand… how things between us could have gone wrong so quickly. Did something happen? Did someone tell you to… end things with me?”

The Commander could feel the veins throbbing in his ears. Leave it to Tharin to accurately deduce what had happened all on his own. Everything in Cullen was clamoring to tell the truth, but he daren’t. Though they escaped Haven alive, the Herald was irreparably injured because of him.

The Spymaster was right all along: his own ineptitude could do more damage than the Elder One’s army. So, Cullen couldn’t possibly come clean now. The young man deserved loads more than what he could offer, and other than his heart, he could offer precious little.

He forcefully willed his jaw to unclench and let the frigid words tumble out, “Your worship, I make my own decisions. No one forced my hand.”

Tharin’s brilliant eyes lost their luster. He murmured dejectedly, “Ah, of course. I apologize for putting you on the spot. I guess I just wanted to understand the… suddenness of it all.”

Cullen couldn’t breathe. He clenched and unclenched his fists, willing his body to calm down. Unsuccessfully.

Filled with a desperate desire to end the exchange right then, he leapt up to exclaim, “You must be famished. Let me see if I could go scrounge up some tea and breakfast for you.”

When the man craned his neck toward the entrance to see if any runner was waiting outside, he felt a tug on his surcoat.

“Don’t leave just yet.” Tharin’s right hand was firmly attached to the fabric.

After a debate in his head, Cullen decided to settle back down reluctantly. Only then did the young man let his hand drop.

“You should know I attacked you in the war room because I was hurting. It hurt to lose you, but that is no excuse. It was unfair to you and unworthy of me.”

The Commander couldn’t help but observe how fragile Tharin seemed. He started extending his arms to embrace the young man before he remembered. He couldn’t do that anymore.

“I know I don’t have any right to ask, but please try to find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Cullen frantically searched for the right words, the right kind of reply to comfort without letting on too much. Yet his mind drew a blank and nothing else.

“…I understand if you can’t. I made a promise to you, and I should have kept it regardless of our quarrel. The Inquisition is your home, as long as you want it to be.”

“Thank you.” Cullen took a second to steel himself and stood up once again. Before he turned to leave, however, he was finally able to articulate what he had been thinking for the past fortnight. “But you were right to criticize me. Change must begin somewhere, and the Inquisition could be the model for a new relationship between mages and non-mages. You saw our potential beyond the immediate goal and… I am deeply ashamed of my intransigence and shortsightedness.”

Tharin tried to clasp his hand, but Cullen swiftly moved out of the way. Spurned, the warm, large, callused hand hovered midair, only to flop down a moment later. Just like its owner, it looked limp and downhearted.

“You won’t leave the Inquisition now, will you?”

Cullen turned away, facing the exit. “No. I made a promise to you, too. I will stay as long as you have need of me.”

It dawned on him that this was the new normal. His relationship with Tharin had been stripped of all emotional components, romantic or otherwise, and the only thing left was the common cause. The ambiguous _later_ had finally arrived, and now was the time for him to move on and continue to perform his duties as he had always done. As the way things were supposed to be.

But then why did his life seem so… abhorrent to him all of a sudden?

“I will be back with your food,” intoned Cullen lifelessly.

This time Tharin did not stop him from leaving.

***

Dorian was frustrated. He adored the south to bits for its rustic charm, but it had little to offer when it came to literature on Tevene history, especially the ones without salacious insinuations and overt vilification. After scanning the books salvaged from Haven, he had to concede that he was not about to make a great discovery. _Perhaps talking to the Herald might be useful in understanding the Elder One_ , he tried to comfort himself.

When Dorian entered the hovel the healers had left Tharin in, he found the young man perched on the cot. His left hand looked raggedy and his pale right hand hung onto a tray with a dismal bowl of gruel and a dirty cup of liquid with a shade that vaguely resembled elfroot tea.

The man was staring into space, not paying attention to the food.

“Didn’t the Chantry sisters teach you not to waste?”

“Sorry?”

“Your breakfast. It’s getting cold.” Not likely. “Well… Colder, anyway.”

“Oh, right. To be honest, I’m not really hungry. Do you want it?”

“No, thank you. I’ve already had my fill of abysmal rations for the week, maybe the whole month. And I’m sure you need it. You must be famished.”

Tharin huffed a hollow laugh.

“It’s good to know I’m funny, but care to enlighten me as to how?”

“Someone else said that to me not five minutes ago.”

“Ah, great minds think alike, I daresay.” He strode surely and took a seat on a crate next to Tharin. Without hesitating he asked, “How are you?”

The glazed look returned. It did not bode well for Dorian’s plan to interview the young man. But he was determined to wait out if necessary. He simply must hear about the Herald’s encounter with the Elder One.

Tharin stubbornly refused to cooperate with his plan, however. When the young man finally returned Dorian’s gaze, he saw troubling signs of overtly expressive emotions. Before he could start, he heard a subdued voice, “I have a question for you.”

All that emotional repression, a natural part of Dorian’s Tevene upbringing, rendered him hardly ready to handle interactions fraught with feelings, much less those with off-putting ones. And Dorian was aware of his weakness. Scrambling to hide the uneasiness, he responded flippantly. “Oh goody. Something to distract us as the world comes to an end. What is it?”

The young man seemed unfazed by the biting sarcasm, though he was having more than a trivial amount of trouble verbalizing his question. “What do you do when someone is… If you are… What should you do when you… like someone who doesn’t feel the same way about you?”

Dorian thought about the man whose unattainable allure could reduce the mighty Herald of Andraste to this sorry state, though the mangled left hand must have contributed to the low spirit.

It had to be Commander Rutherford. A fascinating twist, since he had gleaned from their first personal interaction that the Commander was the one who was besotted with the Herald, not necessarily the other way around.

Knowing how tediously serious and conventional that man was at all times, however, it would not have surprised Dorian one bit to find out that the young man was too forward and managed to scare the Commander off.

Still, Dorian had to accept that his position in the Inquisition was far from rock solid, so he must not be too nosy in others’ personal matters. All he could do for now was to surmise wildly.

Nonetheless, Dorian did not particularly feel like being helpful. Why was _he_ responsible for resolving whatever was happening, or not happening, between the Commander and the Herald? If those two were meant to be, they would find a way. No need for a third person to get involved and create a larger mess. In any case, there were far more pressing matters to worry about, like correctly identifying the Elder One and his vulnerabilities.

Not that the Altus felt like chastising the young man either. His years of fruitless attempts at romantic undertakings taught him that when it came to a one-sided love, being sensible was not one of its prerequisites.

Dorian thought back to all those times when he foolishly believed that the man who wanted his body at that moment would eventually want more, that it would blossom into a genuine courtship. Frivolous little flirts they all were, but the yearning to be claimed and cherished defeated the better judgment every single time.

And so, Dorian had to learn over and over that a wild night of hedonism – nonstop dusk-to-dawn fucking, as he would put it – would never lead to reciprocation of his infatuated devotion. The magic of the moment always dissipated, and his lovers always forsook him. At least he was grateful for having put those naïve years behind him.

“I’ve always found that trying to make something out of nothing inevitably ends in misery.” With that, the Altus found himself sufficiently content with the advice he had given and decided to change the subject. “Anyway, if that is all…”

To his dismay, the young man was not finished. “But what if you aren’t completely sure? The other person’s intent, I mean. What should I do?”

It was too easy to forget that the Herald was only twenty-one. A pup, really, with much to learn. And Dorian could be patient if need be. “Have you told this person how you feel?”

“Yes.”

“If it wasn’t met with an enthusiastic response, I say move on.” He immediately qualified, feeling slightly sorry for his insensitivity, “Let the person come to you. You’ve done all you can.”

Gingerly, Dorian pushed. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Elder One…”

Tharin’s eyes seemed to snap back into focus. They were actually quite striking, pellucid oceans captured in small discs. Their brilliant color so reminiscent of the warm waters of the Tevene coast that he missed dearly, especially in this biting freeze.

“You are right. I should be concentrating my energy on the new threat,” agreed the Herald as he nodded deliberately.

“I think that’d be for the best, for now.”

But before Dorian could begin, he was interrupted yet again. He rolled his eyes as the tent flap opened and the giantess clomped in.

“Ah, you are up. I’m glad.” Dorian thought he detected a note of criticism in the Cassandra’s words, that she was displeased with Tharin’s indolence – how dare he sleep through the day after having lost two fingers and almost died? –, but he chalked it up to his being hypersensitive to any perceived slights.

“So, how are you doing.” There was no upward inflection at the end, but the question clarified the fact that this was a social call. No doubt a rare occurrence for Seeker Pentaghast.

“As well as I can be, I think. I’m still processing… this.” Tharin waved the bandaged hand.

“Yes. It is a pity the Commander and I could not reach you sooner.” She seemed stumped for a moment before blurting out, “I am sorry.” The young man simply gave her a downcast acknowledgment.

The woman stood awkwardly, hands on hips. She sounded curt as she inquired, “Have you spoken to Cullen?”

“Yes.”

“Did he explain why he…” She turned to stare at Dorian and pursed her lips. “Never mind.”

“Cassandra, did Cullen tell you what he’s thinking about–”

“No, I haven’t had the chance to talk to him in private since the last night’s argument.”

“Ah, I see.”

A good chunk of the dialogue was left unsaid, but Dorian filled in the gaps. He was clever like that. He saw another piece of the puzzle fall into place.

But the extent of the Seeker’s ability to discuss private matters was limited, to say the least. The Altus listened to Cassandra drone on about the refugees and the elven apostate, and when she ran out of topics – even the ones about the official business – he cut in. The young man was obviously in no state to be hassled any further.

“Well, this visit has been lovely, but we should leave you to rest. I shall bother you with the questions later, so be ready for an onslaught. Speaking of resting, Seeker, you look like you could use some as well.”

The woman grunted, seemingly offended at Dorian’s suggestion. “I’ve had shuteye.”

“I don’t mean napping. I mean, a proper lie-down, without all the Inquisition nonsense bouncing around in that charming head of yours.”

The woman bristled, but her irritation soon lost vigor. Her commitment to keeping an annoyed expression seemed to melt away. She tersely acknowledged, “I’ve felt better.” If Cassandra was admitting to being under the weather, she must truly be. It was the perfect time for the both of them to take their leave.

Before they left, however, Cassandra reached out with her right hand and squeezed the Herald’s left shoulder. For her, it must have been a remarkable gesture of close friendship. “Take care of yourself. The Inquisition needs you.”

A weak grin floated on Tharin’s face. Dorian suddenly felt unbearably desolate, but if someone asked, he could not have explained exactly why.

***

Having trekked the mountain paths for three days, Tharin was beginning to think they were on a wild-goose chase. The sun was setting, and the visibility was getting worse. The night chill would set in soon, making it impossible for the sick and the wounded to trudge along further. The Inquisition could not very well leave them all behind.

At least there was to be something at the end of all this. Solas was expectedly secretive about the destination, but he had already proven himself to be a man of his word and the Inquisition no longer had a base of operation. Anything would be better than nothing.

Yet it was far more than any of them could have dreamed. When they scaled the last mountain summit, they saw. There, above the clouds and reflected by the dying sun, stood a titan, a fortress that seemed grander and more majestic than any castle in all of Thedas.

Solas proudly proclaimed, “Skyhold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, at least Cullen and Tharin patched things up in a slipshod, temporary way, didn't they? And we got more Dorian. What more could you want?!
> 
> Next up, a new variable in the equation.
> 
> Follow me at **https://isk4649.tumblr.com** on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new WIP, **Where the Waves Crest (波が上り詰める所)** : Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan. I just posted the summary as well.
> 
> Comments, reviews, and critiques are always welcome but never obligatory! Thank you for reading!


	15. Beasts of Burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags included!

_Who was it that said, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them?”_ Cullen wondered as he leaned against the door to his new office cum residence, surveying the view.

He was having a difficult time believing that such a magnificent fortress just fell into their lap. Harder to believe was the fact that this place could have remained completely forgotten to all of Thedas, except for Solas, until now. Even if it was situated in the middle of the Frostbacks.

The Commander would have preferred for Tharin to press the elven apostate to give up more details of his background, but eventually decided to let it go. They found a new home. A home that befits the growing power of the Inquisition. It would be ungracious of him to question all this just to satisfy his need to control everything.

Without a warning, Cole materialized by his side, the strange boy who warned the Inquisition of the imminent attack by the Red Templars. Cullen had heard during a war room meeting that despite fervent protests from Vivienne and tepid disapproval from Cassandra, the Herald decided to let him stay.

Cullen was also aware that the boy could erase any knowledge of his existence from people he’d interacted with: he had witnessed it happen to a handful of his soldiers, coincidentally enough all suffering from significant physical and mental traumas. The templar instinct in Cullen was screaming that he – or it – was a demon.

Cole murmured monotonously, “I am not a demon. I am not human, but I am not a demon either.”

The Commander sighed. Having to cope with one mind reader in the form of Sister Nightingale was quite enough, but now here was another one. “You must try to not do that. It’s very disconcerting.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t like demons. You are templar but you are nice, like Evangeline.” The monotone speech made it more difficult to discern how every thought in Cole’s head connected before it was verbalized. It did not matter since he was speaking in codes the next moment.

“Silence speaks unsure, but the unsure speaks out. The chains are in place only to break. Always a step away from his reach. The humming plays no more, but he wants it there. He will be happy when the music comes back. But happy is not what he will be.”

 _That… might be about me_ , Cullen thought, only to dismiss the idea a second later. He would have to be fairly self-involved to think Cole’s nonsensical musings were about him.

Cullen once again sighed. Maker, what strange things would he have to contend with next? For no good reason he suddenly remembered what Dorian said at the Singing Maiden a couple weeks before the closing of the Breach. The mage may have said it in jest, but he would have little trouble believing it now: maybe nugs that could fly and breathe fire were indeed in store for him.

The strange boy interrupted his train of thought. “You are in pain. Let me help.”

“How can you help?”

“I can make you forget. All the scary dreams that keep you up at night. I can make them disappear.”

Erasing the memories of Kinloch and Kirkwall… He was surprised to find himself drawn to the idea, yet he knew once he crossed that line, he could never return. It would not be so dissimilar to losing oneself to lyrium-induced catatonia, even though he would remain completely conscious and functioning. He would no longer be Cullen Rutherford, but rather some inferior imitation of the man he was today.

As much as he hated having to grapple with his past at every turn, he still valued the lessons learned from those disasters and the complex thinking process he had developed over the years. Without the firsthand knowledge of what happened, he was not sure he would be able to evolve further or even retain what he managed to gain only after much introspection.

Cullen beamed kindly, something he did not think he could do in the presence of the not-really-human-but-also-probably-not-demon boy. “I see. But you can’t help me that way. Those memories are part of me and my burden to bear. I would appreciate it if you let them be.”

Cole’s giant hat flopped as the boy tipped his head in bewilderment. “I don’t… understand. If they hurt you, why do you want to keep them?”

“Because without them, I wouldn’t want to be better than myself.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“It’s… well, it’s hard to explain. I’m sorry.”

Cole looked contemplative for a minute. When his lips parted, another cryptic message came forth. “He doesn’t want you to forget either. He likes the you of now. But the humming owns him, and he owes the chains his everything. He won’t fight, but you can.”

The next moment, the boy was gone. Cullen was alone again.

***

Reputation was the Inquisition’s topic du jour.

Once the Inquisition was settled in the fortress, Josephine decreed that everyone was to be on her best behavior. News of the great setback, if not exactly a defeat, traveled fast to the Inquisition’s allies and enemies alike, and Madam Ambassador wanted to do her best to redeem the lost prestige quickly.

Josephine’s first act after arriving in Skyhold was to utilize Leliana’s agents and the extensive network of impressionable Chantry sisters to spread the story of the Herald’s miraculous return.

Soon the story was on everyone’s lips, and there was no escaping it anywhere in the civilized world. The narrative hyped the Herald’s deeds without a trace of irony – _Hark, sayeth the Maker, he is my prophet and your salvation, and thou shalt follow his lead to the Promised Land. Ye shall find in Skyhold thine new home._

It embarrassed Tharin to no end, but delighted Varric, Sera, and Dorian. They’d come to greet him with an unnaturally enthusiastic shout of “hail, prophet!” followed by an overly formal curtsey or bow. Their enjoyment did not abate with successive iterations, and Tharin eventually accepted the fact that he would have to put up with them for the foreseeable future.

Josephine’s second act was to have Tharin pass judgment on Movran the Under, the Avvar chieftain of Edvarr Hold and the father of the Hand of Korth. According to the man, he was dutybound to smack Skyhold with goat’s blood in order to protest his son’s death at the hands of the Herald.

But there was a bit of a dissonance between his professed reason for splatting Skyhold with goat blood and his demeanor after the arrest. If anything, the man seemed to be in a good humor, cachinnating nonstop in his handcuffs.

It was obvious that Lady Montilyet desired to present the world with a new Herald of Andraste, one who was comfortable in his position as the leader of the Inquisition and looked regal passing judgment on a fierce, impressive opponent.

Instead, Tharin felt silly having to pretend that throwing a herd of unsuspecting goats at Skyhold’s outer wall was a serious crime. Further, he was uncomfortable having to act morally superior to the culprit who had every reason to do what he did. The young man refused to take the whole spectacle seriously. He decided to have Movran imprisoned in a gibbet for three days and then armed him and his clan to the teeth before banishing them to Tevinter.

Josephine, of course, looked miffed at the way Tharin handled himself at the trial. He couldn’t even say “gibbet” correctly the first two times, though the Herald thought he had done an excellent job of imitating princes of noble birth. They liked to look disinterested in the affairs of mere mortals, right?

Despite the humiliations he suffered at the hands of the overzealous Ambassador, the young man was initially supportive of her effort. As the newly proclaimed Inquisitor, he saw it as an essential part of his responsibility to shore up the organization and guard its interests. If a woman of talent such as Josephine was going to play a supporting role in that, much the better.

Yet when she started to hector the companions more than usual, he was forced to step in. The last straw was when Josephine circulated a memorandum asking members of the Inner Circle who she judged to not be suitable for public presentation to stay away from the great hall for the week.

The memo included almost half the companions: The Iron Bull, Sera, Ser Blackwall, and Varric Tethras. In a tiny print underneath the list, she also provided names of those she deemed to be under probation along with specific reasons: Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast (due to her permanent grumpiness) and Altus Dorian Pavus (for being a dreaded Tevinter necromancer).

When Josephine shared the original memo at a morning briefing after she had already sent the copies out to the others, Leliana sighed and chuckled in disbelief. “Oh, Josie… Really?”

Cullen looked peeved. The Commander made it known time and again that he could not care less about the politics of running the Inquisition, and he obviously did not appreciate being dragged into it by Josephine’s ill-judged memo. He harrumphed and crossed his arms.

Tharin held on as long as he could but eventually burst out laughing. “Josephine, this is just perfect. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if the Bull and Sera were to lay siege on the war room right now with Cassandra cheering them on.”

Madam Ambassador’s glowing face crumbled into one filled with absolute horror as she mulled over her action. “What… have I… done…?”

The Inquisitor tried to comfort her even as his shoulders convulsed from unadulterated jocundity. “It’s all right. I will talk to the companions and sort it out. Meanwhile, I want you to head straight back to your desk and write apology notes to the companions you’ve offended.” And she had better start soon. She had six groveling apologies to write before the day was over.

The Iron Bull and Blackwall were easy enough to handle. Tharin just invited them to the tavern, plied them with cheap booze, and they were golden, though Blackwall needed some words of encouragement. He’d sounded inexplicably low-spirited when he said, “Do ya think Lady Montilyet wrote that about me ‘cos… Ach, forget it.”

Varric and Dorian just laughed it off when Tharin approached them in their respective corners of Skyhold. The Tevinter mage was especially amused. “I have to say, I’m impressed with the diplomatic finesse of great Lady Josephine Montilyet. My goodness, she could unite a thousand armies under one banner… against her.” The Altus let his guttural chortles ring throughout the rotunda. A couple of Leliana’s ravens mirrored them with their own caws.

Dorian then smoothed his mustache as he said to himself, “I did see a case of fine wine from Carastes in the cellar. Perhaps I could guilt Josephine into donating several bottles to me. For research purposes. Of magical things.” Tharin discreetly rolled his eyes before leaving the mage.

Cassandra, who’d collapsed from a noxious blend of overexertion and pneumonia as soon as she set foot inside Skyhold and was now confined to the infirmary, had not gotten the memo and merely snorted when Tharin told her what had happened. She actually sounded rather pleased that Josephine had described her as permanently grumpy. “It’s true, I am gruff,” was the extent of her commentary.

Placating Sera, however, proved to be a challenge.

When Tharin arrived at Sera’s new hideout above the tavern, he saw a scrap paper with a scribble that vaguely resembled Josephine’s face, though replete with fangs and angry bushy eyebrows, pinned to the door with a number of daggers and darts sticking out from it. He chuckled, thinking Josephine did deserve that but told himself to never mention the caricature to anyone.

“It’s shite. Josie’s acting like Vivienne and she doesn’t even know what a bitch she’s being. Might wanna talk to her before she becomes Madame Fancypants the Second, yeah? Or else, she might have to watch out for her breeches.”

“I know, I know. She made a terrible mistake, and she is _very_ sorry about it.”

“But sorry isn’t good enough, y’know? It’s like, I get it, she’s someone big, but now she’s acting like it too. Ugh… I hate when the good ones turn bad…

Sera sat on her sofa cross-legged and cross-armed. Her face was all puffed up, her brow creased in naked anger. Tharin realized there was only one way to resolve this.

“All right, fine. What if I give you my permission to prank her? You know, nothing too elaborate or dangerous, just enough to take her down a peg.”

Sera’s lips curved upward and eyes crinkled until her whole face broke out in wicked joy. And just like that, he was back in business.

“How many times?”

“Just once.”

“Three times.”

“Once.”

“Three!”

“Sera!”

“What?! The number ain’t gonna change just ‘cos you yell at me!”

“Okay… Twice.”

“And you buy everyone a round tonight.”

“Builder’s grog?”

“Fine, be cheap. You arse.”

“…All right.”

“Ding, ding, ding, sold! To the stinkin’ new fancy-schmancy quizzy!”

Sera clapped joyfully and leapt to her feet. She never failed to make Tharin laugh and it helped after his advisors foisted the title of Inquisitor on him. It was good to remind himself that he was just an ordinary person, still able to laugh at the silliest of things.

Tharin was tempted to keep his deal with Sera secret from Josephine, but only slightly. He liked Josephine as much as he liked Sera. What’s more, he appreciated Josephine’s diplomatic and administrative skills, regardless of the slipup with the memo.

At least he didn’t know what the upcoming pranks were. That would preserve the element of surprise and make things that much better for Sera. And for him too, by extension.

***

Thus, Josephine was blocked from managing the companions and was appropriately punished by Sera. First, the rogue placed a bucket of cold slop on top of the door to Lady Montilyet’s salon that dropped on her head as she greeted a Fereldan arlessa. And then Sera put saw marks on two of the legs on Josephine’s chair, just enough that they broke when the woman sat down, which resulted in her landing on the floor arse-first in front of an Orlesian vicomte.

Following these instances of very public humiliation, Josephine turned her attention back to the Inquisitor, much to his chagrin.

She got it into her head that Tharin needed to master chess in order to impress their noble allies. Naturally, it fell on Dorian to train him. His doubly hated status as a Tevinter and a necromancer made his role somewhat limited in Skyhold, and therefore he was the companion with most free time on his hand.

When the Ambassador summoned Tharin to tell him the “good news,” he briefly wondered if she was trying to punish him after learning of the clandestine negotiation between Sera and him. It was a distinct possibility, considering he had never expressed any interest in chess. Not even once.

Other than his skepticism regarding Josephine’s real motive, the semiweekly chess lessons with Dorian turned out to be stimulating and enjoyable. Whatever else he may have been, the Altus was certainly not dull. His wit and intelligence made the time pass fast, and he was a charming man despite his tendency to resort to vulgarity just to get a rise out of his playmate.

Gradually, Tharin found himself opening up to the mage more and more. Plus, their shared experience of escaping Redcliffe Castle was a bond that gave their relationship a good starting point.

***

On Dorian’s part, he found in Tharin a good listener and a quick study, something he could appreciate in anyone. It didn’t hurt that the young man was easy on the eyes too. Though Dorian would never admit it publicly, had he been several years younger he would have undeniably seduced the man.

The piece de resistance that followed would have been good too, thanks to his finely tuned body and skills. Now he felt distinctly too old for meaningless romps – not that he was old, Maker forbid – and the Inquisitor was too unapproachable. It was hard to explain exactly, but the man was somehow too… shiny. Or maybe too incorruptible.

But most of all, Dorian knew he had no business trying to bed a taken man. Even if there was nothing between the Herald and the Commander, it was obvious from their conversations that the young man was unavailable. Watching Commander Rutherford, the living embodiment of stoicism and bottled-up emotions, make cow eyes whenever the man was in sight also made it enormously easier for him to let go.

The problem was that flirting came to Dorian naturally. Walking a tightrope between the carnal and the innocuous was as much a hobby for him as it was an art. Sometimes he couldn’t help but let it slip.

Tharin was obviously no half-wit. He reciprocated the flirting. Once, during the early days of the enforced chess tutelage, the young man pushed the envelope, probably to gauge Dorian’s reaction. Nothing too blatant, just a hand brushing against knees and thighs, smiles and gazes that would linger, and stretches that would direct the mage’s eyes to his massive arms.

But Dorian, perspicacious as he was, rebuffed these efforts with pointed silence. After that, the mage was more mindful, and Tharin seemed to let the matter drop.

That was how the two spent the summer days, at least those rare ones that were free of treacherous adventures beyond the walls of Skyhold and hushed whispers of idle nobles worried about imminent attacks by the Elder One. Dorian thought they had formed an intimate emotional bond, one that he came to treasure immensely, but it remained strictly in the realm of friendship and did not advance to anything more substantial.

Or so he convinced himself.

***

The Inquisitor showed up to the chess lesson almost a half hour early. He readied an excuse in case Dorian decided to play dumb and confront him on it, that the spare time gave him an opportunity to catch up on readings that went forgotten in other days.

“Good afternoon.”

The Inquisitor placed a bookmark in the Antivan treatise on taxation and looked up. He saw the Commander take the seat.

“Cullen? Where’s Dorian?”

The man flashed a roguish smirk. “Apparently he’s come down with a severe head cold, though I suspect it has more to do with the satinalian spree he and the Chargers were indulging in last night.” He added with a little snort, “And our Lady Ambassador asserts that, since we have a bit of a breathing room in the military front, I am currently the second most idle person in the Inquisition who can also play chess, after Master Pavus.”

Tharin chortled. “Ah. So, you are my partner for the day?”

“If the message Josephine’s sent me is anything to go by, your tutor more likely. But yes, I will be playing with you today.” The relaxed attitude suddenly vanished, and his eyes darted nervously. “I hope you don’t mind.”

The pain of rejection still hit him occasionally, but it had become quite manageable. He could even give the Commander a polite grin as he was dealing with it. “Nonsense, why would I? Please, prepare the board.”

Whether Cullen understood the implication of the polite grin was unclear, but he sounded moderately cheerful as he laid out the pieces.

“As a child, I played this with my sister. She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won… Which was _all_ the time. My brother and I practiced together for weeks. The look on her face the day I finally won…” When he was done, he put his hands together and stared at the pieces intently, as if he were imagining all the different moves in advance.

Cullen, as Tharin knew well from experience, was an endless fount of mysteries.

“I can confidently say that we talked about well-nigh everything under the sun, but I don’t remember you talking about your family in any detail.”

Cullen looked up from the board, folded his hands, and tapped the thumbs together pensively. “Haven’t I? I suppose not… Mind you, I wasn’t keeping them secret. It’s probably because I haven’t seen them in years. You know that I… had a tough go with the templars. We’ve only just reconnected recently.” As he spoke, he motioned to the board. “You first.”

After dithering for a moment, Tharin moved a pawn in the middle. “Don’t mean to pry, and you can definitely ignore me, but have you many siblings?”

The Commander did not falter, either with chess or with his answer. “Two sisters and a brother:  
Mia, Rosalie, and Branson. They moved to South Reach after the Blight. I do not write them as often as I should. Mia, the eldest, is the chess champion of the family. I wonder if she still plays.”

Only a handful of moves in, Tharin felt his fingers waver as he moved the pieces. It had never happened with Dorian. True to his promise, Cullen was a tough opponent. “I hope you’ve sent them a word since we arrived in Skyhold.”

“Not yet,” said Cullen nonchalantly.

Tharin was shocked by the man’s blasé attitude. “Cullen!”

“Yes, my lord?” The Commander’s warm honey-colored eyes shot up quickly.

“You must write them.”

“I will.”

“No, _today_. You must write them _today_.”

A shadow landed on Cullen’s face. He fell silent, but not from concentrating on the board. Tharin immediately understood what it signified and regretted pressing him.

“Cullen, I haven’t changed my opinion of your work as our commanding officer. You saved the world with what little the Inquisition was able to give you and you will save the world once again by defeating Corypheus. You should be proud of who you have become and what you have accomplished.”

He longed to reach out to Cullen. He would have held the man with no hesitation if this were before… that morning when they ended everything. But there was a wall now, not so conspicuous but nevertheless real. With his right hand hovering over the other man’s left arm resting on the table, he cautiously asked, “May I?”

The Commander remained mute, only nodding uncertainly. When the Inquisitor’s hand enveloped his own hand, Cullen closed his eyes firmly like the contact burned.

“Write them. Let them know you are alive and doing well.”

“But… Haven was–”

“Not your fault. None of us could have predicted what happened that night. You are not to blame.”

Cullen replied in an overcast voice, “You stayed behind, all alone. I can’t stop thinking… We almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t lose me. I am still here, alive, playing chess with you. Very poorly, evidently.” His chuckle petered out when he saw Cullen’s eyes. They were dry but filled to the brim with self-reproach. No amount of consolation, no matter how jocular or logically convincing, was going to wipe them away. The memories were still too fresh.

“Please, forgive me,” said the Commander in a ghost of a voice. Tharin did not ask what he was apologizing for.

The young man let summer occupy their little corner of the garden while Cullen regrouped. Only the distant wails of cicadas broke the thick silence between the two men. The breeze was cool, but at this altitude it was anything but unfamiliar.

The Commander held his gaze away, but it wasn’t focused on anything. His suffering was intense, but his silence was total and unyielding. Nothing more was to be uttered. The man’s powerful jaw flexed as if he was trying to swallow back all the regurgitated emotions.

Each sad furrow on Cullen’s brow, each pained dimple by Cullen’s locked mouth, each lash from the whip put a deep gash on Tharin, until he was willing to take no more. He shut his eyes and convinced himself that avoidance was kinder than engagement. Now, only the balmy scent in the air, infused with the humid, nurturing smell of the golden sun, commanded his attention. It seemed to reach deep within and flush out the gloomy thoughts.

For one glorious moment he forgot where he was and who he was.

After a long while, the Commander spoke, timid and afraid. Words were obviously put together with great care, deliberately skirting the hurt and the guilt that infested the man’s soul. “We haven’t had a chance to talk properly after we got here and… I am glad you are here w–with me.”

Tharin took his hand away but gave the other man a faint grin. Genuine, this time. “I’ve missed you too.”

Those four guileless words lit up Cullen’s visage from night to day in an instant. Not a sunny one, but day, nonetheless. And then came a whisper from him that was almost imperceptible, just a thin wisp of something hopeful springing from his lungs. “You said that…”

The man looked up with poignant eyes and finally showed a subdued smile that seemed to make Tharin’s tremor worse. “We should… finish our game, right? My turn?”

“Go ahead, Commander. Vanquish me.” The Inquisitor sighed and leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the lassitude that plagued his shell all of a sudden.

***

By the late afternoon, the summer sun had lost much of its ferocity and was lightly caressing the  
Inquisitor’s face, softening the bumps and grooves that accentuated it. Yet his eyes burned intensely, as he discussed the most pressing Inquisition businesses with his three advisors.

“All right, thanks for the update. We will need to monitor the situation in Hasmal closely, but I agree. We can’t act unless they explicitly ask for our help. We must do everything within our power to dispel the notion that the Inquisition is just another bully.

“Sister, please make sure to post additional scouts in the city, perhaps two or three. Commander, have a small group of veteran soldiers, no more than thirty, ready to depart at a moment’s notice. Now, Madam Ambassador, what news?”

Lady Montilyet cheerfully tapped her writing clipboard and began to speak breezily, “We’ve been receiving marriage proposals from noble houses in all nations of southern Thedas. You are a very popular man indeed, particularly among Orlesian debutantes.

“There have been about two dozen so far, but we are receiving more every day. And there’s one particularly interesting offer from Tevinter, which Dorian tells me is not some trap. We should sit down and discuss whether you like any of the prospects.”

The Inquisitor’s face darkened. A divot appeared between his eyebrows, deep enough that not even the sun could simply shine it away.

“I thought I’d already said no to this nonsense. I can’t imagine these people are even half-serious. They don’t even know me, yet they are willing to fling their sisters and daughters at me? It’s too ridiculous for words.”

Josephine’s voice became steelier. “Inquisitor, these proposals are genuine, and I urge you to treat them as such. You don’t have to marry right away, and you certainly don’t have to marry anyone you dislike, but you must start considering these offers.”

“You let me ignore them when we were at Haven. So whyever would I actually take them seriously now?”

“Because circumstances have changed. We now know Corypheus has many more allies than previously thought. The Red Templars alone can field a formidable army, not to mention the powerful magisters behind the Venatori.

“Also, since the Battle of Haven more people have been coming to us – volunteers, refugees, pilgrims, fighters, and odd apostates – and we are in dire need of more donations and supplies to take care of them. Yet we have no stable source of income, other than what you bring in from your adventures.

“We need to gain access to the coffers of noble families, but we can do so only if we appear to be a real power, an organization that no one can overlook and many must fear. A marital alliance with a right dynasty can provide us with that kind of reputation.”

The young man scowled unpleasantly. “So, you would have me sold to the highest bidder?”

“No, nothing as vulgar as that. But…”

“Then what is it?”

Leliana finally intervened. She first turned to Josephine and sounded, “Allow me.” It was like an experienced mother taking over as her baby began to throw a tantrum.

In a calm voice the Spymaster then chimed, “What Josie is trying to say is that the Inquisition must play the Grand Game well to grow now. And part of playing the Game includes carefully considering the pros and cons of offers that come your way.

“Betrothal and alliance, you must think of them as one and the same. It does not mean that we have to decide right now or that you will be completely bound to your commitment, but it does mean that we must appear to be actively searching for the right match.”

Josephine nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, thank you, Leliana. It would help me a great deal if you could entertain the ladies mentioned in the proposals when you are in Val Royeaux next time? I’m sure we can scrounge up an official business as a pretext if you feel uncomfortable.”

Tharin folded his arms and sneered. “I see. Really, you just see me as a studhorse, to be led around to breed mares unfortunate enough to be in my way, so you could charge however many sovereigns their owners are willing to pay?”

“Inquisitor!” He watched with some measure of petty satisfaction as the coarse metaphor shocked Josephine. She fumbled and dropped her tablet on the map table. The ink splattered all over the Free Marches, taking out Ostwick and Hasmal.

“Well, that’s just too perfect,” Leliana mumbled quite audibly as she stared at the fresh stain. She made no attempt to stem the flow even while Cullen busied himself to get the rest of the map out of its way.

The Inquisitor whirled around and called on the man absorbed with saving Thedas from an untamed tide of black ink. “I’ve heard plenty from you two. I want to hear from you, Commander.”

Cullen’s hands halted at the declaration. He began to shrink before their eyes. “I don’t… believe this is an area that requires my input…”

“Regardless, you must have some opinion on the matter. You are one of the three advisors for the Inquisitor and I need to hear your thoughts right now.” Tharin knew he was grasping, but he could feel his own life slipping away and his chest was about to burst. If there was anyone in the room who would take his side, it had to be Cullen.

The Commander folded his arms, looking defensive, as he began to speak deliberately. “I agree with the Inquisitor that this whole talk of matrimonial alliance is… preposterous. But I must confess… In principle, I favor duty over personal feelings. There could be no harm if you only need to appear to be considering the proposals and not actually accept them. And if the Inquisition can benefit from participating in the Game, then… it would be irresponsible of us not to.”

“Cullen… Would you be so calm if I asked you to abandon your love and marry some noblewoman in Maker-knows-where? If I were to cite duty and obligation as the reason why you must marry someone you do not even like? Or have met? Would you then just say all right and go ahead with the wedding?”

“Inquisitor…”

Leliana sharply interrupted Cullen. “Inquisitor, are you trying to tell us that there’s someone you are already interested in? If so, please let us know. Perhaps we can accommodate your preference.”

Tharin actually felt his forehead boil. How dare she? She had to have done her research, which meant that she definitely knew about his involvement with a male mage in Hasmal. He found her feigned naïveté repulsive.

He made no effort to hide the disgust. The Spymaster had to know how Tharin thought of her, yet her lightless maw kept moving. She was serene. “As I’ve mentioned before, Empress Celene of Orlais used to keep an elven handmaiden as her lover, yet no one questioned the legitimacy of the throne or her ability to rule.”

Josephine scoffed. “Except for Gaspard and his cronies.”

Leliana gave her friend a sharp look. “That has more to do with internal politics and the grand duke’s thirst for power. Do you think the Orlesians care? No. There is nothing virginal about their empress, yet that is what they call her. The Virgin Empress.”

This was getting nowhere. He felt like he was shouting into the void. “This is veering off on a tangent. You do realize she is unmarried and heirless?”

“What I am trying to emphasize, my lord, is that arranged marriage or no you can still live your life the way you want to.”

The young man brought down his fist on the map table and with a loud bang the marker pieces convulsed. Josephine yelped. The Commander sucked in air and stared intently at all the markers.

“Except I couldn’t! I won’t put on a show just for you and Josephine!”

All the air in the room seemed to have been sucked away. It took Tharin a moment to calm himself enough to argue without exploding all over the place again.

“What about the woman who will be stuck with me? What about her life?”

“She will live her own life, separate from yours if you so desire.” Leliana’s voice was unchanged: dry and remorseless.

Tharin sniggered cynically, refusing to even look at the Spymaster. “My, my, Leliana. You have an answer for everything, don’t you.”

He then lifted his face to once again reason with Cullen, whose gaze was now firmly secured on the tips of his boots. “I know Lady Montilyet and Sister Leliana will have me married off and soon. You are mistaken to think I only have to pretend for a while.

“In some not-so-distant future, I will be gone because our Ambassador will have finally gotten her way. All I will be is a pet kept by a stuffy duchess somewhere opulent and empty. I will keep my title, but I won’t be in Skyhold.

“Cullen, I may not be able to… To see any of you ever again once I leave. And after Corypheus is defeated, everyone will treat me like a taxidermied beast. To be paraded around with fancy adornments, to be gawked and marbled at, but completely useless. Is that what you mean by duty?”

“…”

“Isn’t there anything you will say?”

“I… I can’t…”

“Cullen?”

“…”

Silence.

Tharin exhaled miserably and closed the meeting. At least that would put an end to all this maddening verbal tug of war. “That’s enough. I’m calling it a day. Thank you all.”

As the advisors filed out of the room, Tharin called out in a meek voice, “Josephine, I need to apologize for my outburst. You do not deserve that. I know you are just doing your job.”

The woman’s brows furrowed sympathetically as she spoke, “We can talk later, my lord. I will be at my desk when you need me.” She then padded out.

Absolute silence had conquered the chamber. The sun was still blindingly bright, but it was without the requisite warmth. The brightness of its rays was oppressive. Tharin was leaning forward on the table, glaring at the Inquisition map marker pinned on Skyhold. He could sense the Commander lingering, hoping to talk.

“Yes?”

Cullen spoke in a soft, melodic voice that used to brighten his heart. Hearing it just hurt now. “It was not my intention to imply that I would condone Josephine and Leliana to manipulate your life to benefit the Inquisition. It’s just that… we’ve come so far.”

“I know. You don’t have to remind me what’s at stake here. But I’d hoped you would…” What did he hope for? An ally? An advocate? A friend who cares more about his happiness than the Inquisition? A knight in shining armor to rout the idea of a marital farce?

“Never mind. Just forget it.”

“Your worship–”

“Stop!” The Anchor flickered menacingly as the young man tightened his grip on the map table. “Please, Cullen… Don’t call me that. I just… I just can’t be… what you want me to be right now.”

A hand landed on his shoulder, and the Inquisitor felt an overwhelming urge to swat it away but fought it. This was not Cullen’s doing, and he had no right to take his anger out on the man.

Cullen shuffled out, but not before offering a meager apology, “I am truly sorry.” Instead of replying, Tharin exhaled harshly.

The final wail of the wicket gate sounded, and the room was deserted. The Inquisitor stood there staring at the map until the shadows stretched long.

Leliana and Josephine served the Inquisition, not the Inquisitor. He could not fault them for employing every means to advance their common cause. Reputation, wealth, political leverage, popular support, whatever they could get their hands on, they would use. Yet their methods were starting to hit too close to home. They were treating him as a beast of burden, destined to carry the Inquisition on his shoulders forever.

It began to dawn on him that he had little choice in the matter. Rationally, he knew playing the Game by showing interests in marriage proposals was the surest way to attract the attention of the right people.

And once an alliance was forged through a betrothal, the Inquisition would no longer need to worry about running out of money or supplies. Every noble house in southern Thedas would be clamoring to curry favor, showering their wealth and influence on the Inquisitor. Thus, as a responsible leader, he had only one possible choice: to marry.

Still, being a conscientious leader meant that he would no longer be part of Cullen’s life. It would not matter one whit whether he missed the Commander’s company. When… No, if the Inquisition managed to defeat Corypheus, he would be stuck in a marriage of convenience for the remainder of his life, resenting the woman who would have him ensnared in purposeless court rituals.

Except this was not about Tharin, not when he could actually think of the larger picture, anyway. The people looked to the Inquisition to help them in these dark times, and the Inquisition needed him to find a suitable match.

Moreover, regardless of his feelings about arranged marriages, the young man wanted Cullen to have a good life. Whether Tharin was to be happy or unhappy in the end, funneling the available resources to the Inquisition and eventually defeating the false Archdemon would mean Cullen could build a new life for himself. The former templar could finally find the peace and stability he’d desperately searched for years. And what could be more gratifying than knowing that he handed Cullen a real chance at happiness?

This was the Inquisitor’s chance to recompense for dredging up the Commander’s past. This was his chance to heal the injuries left by his words.

This was his duty.

After contemplating for hours, Tharin decided he was going to marry. Not for the Inquisition, but for Cullen and his future.

***

It had been hours since the meeting adjourned, and the Inquisitor was still in the war room. Josephine kept glancing at the hallway hoping to see the young man emerge.

She took supper at her desk. It was remarkable how bland her plate of grilled vegetables and salmon en croûte turned out to be. Like biting and chewing on piles of old diplomatic correspondences. At least those would be seasoned well from the nervous sweats her polite, yet demanding words brought out in people.

Her dinner this evening, on the other hand, lacked proper seasoning as well as mandatory spices, and was honestly overcooked in general. She was almost sure the cook boiled the greens first and then merely put grill marks on the soggy mess. Voilà! Grilled vegetables.

The Inquisition had an adept warrior with a magical hand, supported by the best spymaster and the best diplomat in the world, leading companions who lay claim to all sorts of amazing abilities, yet it still could not hire a cook who wasn’t trained in Ferelden and who did not believe every ingredient needed to be boiled for over an hour before being served. Ridiculous.

Nonetheless, she failed to completely dismiss the sneaking suspicion that it was in fact the verbal altercation with the Inquisitor that was interfering with her enjoyment, not the actual horridness of the entrée.

She had long been done with her work for the day, major tasks and routine chores, but she stayed. She could not head back to her quarters before talking to the Inquisitor and coming to an agreement about considering the options. The Inquisition needed this.

At least, that is what she thought. Like anything else in life, the outcome rather than the process signaled either the success or the failure of a diplomatic endeavor, but there was no way she could be perfectly certain about any of the advices she was giving to the Inquisitor. After all, she was no clairvoyant.

Yet her finely honed instinct was telling her that political alliance through marriage ties would work, that it would bring the Inquisition closer to victory. So, in theory, she wanted to make this happen.

Her personal feelings on the matter were a different story. Setting aside the uncouthness of the metaphor, the Inquisitor was right. She was looking to sell him off to the highest bidder. She was asking him to consent to being sold.

Her stomach felt queasy.

There was definitely something wrong with that salmon.

She was rereading the offer letters and trying to calm her stomach when the wicket finally opened. The hinges on the heavy wooden panel creaked loudly, breaking the silence in the moonlit corridor.

The young man came through the open door to her office looking graver than she had ever seen. He strode right up to the desk and wordlessly stood in front of her for some time. For far too long, actually. At least he did not appear to be irate, but who could know for certain?

Although she had never thought much about Tharin’s stature before, it was all she could think about now. He was a good inch shorter than the Commander, yet his hefty musculature more than made up for any perceived deficiency in height. Everything about the man was thick. Brute strength permeated his presence. The Diplomat wondered if her heartbeats were echoing audibly.

“Which offer caught your eye? I’m sure at least one of them did.” The young man’s eyes were forlorn, and he spoke softly, clear in his intent to make amends.

Josephine exhaled deeply. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath. Of course, Tharin was a gentleman through and through. She supposed her fear was warranted given the severity of the quarrel from before, but now it all felt silly and insignificant.

She went through the stack of letters and picked out the most luxurious stationery to hand to the Inquisitor. Predictably, it was from Orlais. “I would recommend Adelia, Grand Duke Gaspard’s daughter and Empress Celene’s first cousin once removed.”

Tharin took the letter and read cursorily. He scoffed. “So, Gaspard wants friends, is that it?”

“Apparently so. But it’s still a good offer.”

“Wouldn’t my marrying her commit the Inquisition to one side of the Civil War? Not necessarily to the side that would come out victorious?”

Josephine could not conceal as the corners of her mouth curved upward. She was excited by the complexities of political dynamics.

“That’s the beauty of it. Adelia is the only child of Gaspard, born when her father was nearly forty-five. But she was born illegitimate. Hence her surname: de Verchiel. Only recently has the Grand Duke formally recognized her as his daughter, which everyone knows is so that he can name her as heir should he win the war. But…”

Josephine’s grin broadened. “…There is a twist. She has publicly declared her support for Celene. She now resides at the de Chalons estate in Val Royeaux, attending social events as a senior member of the empress’s entourage. Whichever way the war leans, the Inquisition could wait to throw its weight behind either side. Plus, your being engaged to Adelia would confer the Inquisition with a direct access to the financial power and the military of the Orlesian nation.”

“What about Ferelden or Nevarra? Won’t they object based on their fear of the Empire’s territorial ambitions?”

“On the contrary. Before you resolved the situation in Redcliffe and dealt with the Breach, your appraisal of the situation would have been correct. Back then, they did view the Inquisition as unacceptably Orlesian. But now thanks to your brave deeds, they see us as an independent force stabilizing the border region between Orlais and Ferelden.

“Even if we were to form a matrimonial alliance with Orlais, they know we’ve grown too much to be subsumed entirely to the Empire. In fact, they are more likely to seek out a closer partnership with us because we could act as their access point to the imperial court. The Inquisition would fulfill the role of a mediator and a peacekeeper much better with this marriage.”

Josephine tweeted lightly. “I’ve already contacted Fereldan and Nevarran ambassadors in Val Royeaux. I admit, it helped that they are my old friends, but they still agreed with my evaluation of the situation and pledged to speak on our behalf to their sovereigns. At any rate, King Alistair is a reasonable sort, and I could recruit Seeker Pentaghast to pitch in if Nevarra gives us trouble.”

“So, this one is your top choice?”

“Absolutely. It’s pointless to wait for a better match because there can’t be one.”

“Then you have my permission to initiate the contact. I will ask Princess Adelia for her hand in marriage.”

When Tharin forced a smile, Josephine had to put down the letter pile and ask somberly, “Are you sure about this? You could think it over and decide later. We could go over the others in the meantime.”

The young man quietly shook his head. The smile did not last. “No, of course I’m not sure. But you are sure this is for the best, right?”

“Right.” She lied. Her stomach growled in protest.

“Then there’s no need to ponder.” Now a sad grin. The Ambassador felt a pang of guilt but ignored it as she busied herself with the details.

 _For the greater good_ , she chanted the phrase like an incantation in her head.

***

Josephine sent word to Val Royeaux that night. By late morning tomorrow, the carrier raven would arrive at the palace and the negotiations to match the Inquisitor with the only adult offspring of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons would begin. No matter who won the war, the Inquisition could expect the Empire’s support once the engagement was announced. Which was the only thing that counted.

Tharin had followed Josephine to the aviary, and watched her explain the decision to Leliana and release a raven. As the large bird spread its wings and disappeared into the night, he almost wished he too could just fly away and leave everything behind.

The Inquisition was a predator with a voracious appetite. So many things that used to be his had been swallowed up by the creature, yet it showed no sign of abating. The only thing that still remained totally unclaimed by it was his continued devotion to Cullen’s welfare. That, he was never going to part with.

The Cullen who sacrificed himself in Redcliffe told him to be brave and to persevere. This was Tharin’s time to be brave and to persevere, for everyone’s future.

But Tharin had to swallow the fact that he was just a propitiatory offering to the greater good, a beast of burden that would be led to the altar to have his throat sliced open after he outlived his usefulness. Essentially, a beast with no future.

This recognition brought a rather frightening idea to the fore, an idea he hadn’t had to contend with for some time. But he had to admit that while frightening, the plan was also inspired and alluring.

After contemplating as he stared at the two advisors, the young man was able to reach a decision. Serendipity was providing a way to satisfy both his heart and his duty, and he shall not question her.

He was sure. It was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to **ROSCwWAP** of _Unlikely Inquisitor_ for giving me the idea for including Movran the Under's trial! It definitely elevated the chapter, and I'm infinitely grateful.
> 
> Is Cullen going to raise his objections at the wedding? Find out in the... well, not the next, but a later... episode of _As Thedas Turns_.
> 
> Also, what possible plan could you have up your sleeve, Tharin?
> 
> Next up, Cullen ventures out of Skyhold for a good cause.
> 
> Follow me at **https://isk4649.tumblr.com** on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new WIP, **Where the Waves Crest (波が上り詰める所)** : Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan. I've posted the summary as well.
> 
> Comments, reviews, and critiques are always welcome but never obligatory! Thank you for reading!


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